RETRIBUTION
by vmariew
Summary: A disgraced Treville has been stripped of his Captaincy and when Musketeers start dying, the first fear is that they are linked but then it appears that an unidentified person (or persons) seeks retribution for something in the past. As the Inseparables investigate, their search takes them back to the regiment's involvement years earlier at the siege of La Rochelle and beyond.
1. Chapter 1

**RETRIBUTION**

 _ **This story is set in Season 2 between episodes 5 and 6.**_ _ **Whilst no time period was clearly determined in the BBC programmes, I have created my own time-line in that six weeks elapsed from when Treville lost his captaincy at the end of episode 4 until Athos' disappearance in episode 5. This story then opens a further four weeks on from when Athos rescinded his right to his estate and title following the 'Battle of Pinon'.**_

CHAPTER 1

 _Paris, late summer 1631_

The alleyway between the two buildings was narrow and dark, little light filtering down from above to impact upon the deep shadows. Flanked by a tavern on one side and a butcher's shop on the other, detritus from both trades was flung remorselessly into the passageway that offered a short cut between two parallel Paris roads.

Amongst the rubbish, a man sat on the hard-packed ground, his back against the tavern side-wall, legs outstretched before him and hands resting lightly in his lap. Although an odd choice of place for his repose, the casual observer might be forgiven for assuming that he was a drunk who had spilled out of the tavern late the previous evening and, unable to find either his way home or a steadiness of legs to take him there, had opted to sleep off the effects of the alcohol in the first convenient spot.

Indeed, there were several observers now who, far from being casual as they gathered at the nearest end of the alleyway, were strangely quiet as they perused the unfolding events.

The alarm had been raised by the butcher's apprentice who had been tasked with disposing of a bucket filled with bloody water in the alleyway. At first, he had not taken any notice of the man, fixated as he was upon his duty and so familiar was the sight of an inebriated figure in the cold light of day.

However, the boy, with an edge of delighted malice, had not been silent in his job and when his clattering and loud, tuneless singing had failed to initiate any response, he had decided to investigate further.

He had never seen a dead man before but he did know the fleur de lis insignia engraved in the leather pauldron adorning the man's right shoulder. The manner and violence of the man's death was such that the bravado of youth was abandoned as the apprentice ran yelling back into the butcher's shop, his wide eyes and garbled message alerting his master and a number of bemused customers.

They had consequently all traipsed round to the alleyway to gawp at the felled musketeer of the King's regiment; some were shocked by the scene whilst others shook their head, worried at what might have been unleashed in the attack on one of the King's own soldiers. Another couple, less forgiving, agreed that it was probably the unfortunate but no-less deserved aftermath of a drunken brawl. It was more than likely to be the result of a slight altercation between the musketeers and Rochefort's Red Guard, given the history of animosity and the infamous rivalry between the two regiments.

The same boy was then hurriedly despatched to the garrison to impart the news and several men had been swift to follow him back to the scene of the crime. The small crowd watched avidly as one man crouched beside the corpse whilst another stood over him, eyes ever alert on both ends of the alleyway and suspicious of the spectators.

"The cause of death comes as no surprise," Aramis grimly announced, crossing himself in a brief, spiritual recognition of the departed soul and pushing up to stand beside his comrade. Together, they looked down on the dead soldier in a fleeting but respectful silence.

Martin Moreau, seasoned veteran of many a campaign, was known to both of them; it was impossible for a musketeer not to know those with whom he served, even if they were more acquaintances than actual friends. That this one should meet his end in a side alley in such a manner was unthinkable.

The expression on his face was one of mild surprise, mouth slightly open as if he were about to register an objection. The new, second mouth drawn in a cruel line across his neck and emphasised by the congealing dark blood was a mockery of the man's genial nature.

"There are no defensive marks on his hands or arms," Aramis continued.

"And his weapons have gone," Athos intoned flatly, his eyes surveying the ground for any evidence. What might have been there had been obliterated by the many feet of the curious. "He either never stood a chance or he knew his attacker."

Raised voices at the end of the alleyway drew the attention of the two musketeers, frowns at the disturbance quickly giving way to looks of recognition as their two brothers, Porthos and d'Artagnan, eased their way through the throng to rejoin them.

"The innkeeper says Martin wasn't in there last night," d'Artagnan announced , his eyes flitting to the corpse on the ground.

"But I reckon he's lying," Porthos insisted. "He was uneasy and clearly didn't want to answer any of our questions."

"Perhaps the situation calls for applying a little pressure?" Aramis questioned, glancing towards Athos as if seeking confirmation.

"Later," the older musketeer agreed as he dropped to crouch beside the victim, something having caught his eye.

"What is it?" Aramis' brow furrowed in consternation at the prospect of having missed a vital clue.

"Not sure," Athos answered quietly, pulling a relatively clean handkerchief from a pocket and wiping at a patch of blood that had dried on the dead man's chest. Some came away in flakes to reveal scratches on the skin but it was not easy to discern a pattern. Whatever it was had no business being there. "We need to get him back to the garrison and clean him up; there's something there but the light here is not good enough."

"You think it was done by his killer?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Or killers – yes."

"Third one in eight days," Porthos muttered darkly. "Don't seem like a coincidence anymore."

"I agree. I think we need to go back to the beginning and re-examine everything again. I am beginning to suspect that our first dead musketeer, Albert, was no suicide after all." Athos pulled the brim of his hat down over his eyes and turned to face the mass of people at the end of the alleyway, nonchalantly scrutinising the faces as he slowly and deliberately pulled on his leather gauntlets. The person responsible was probably long gone but there was always the possibility that the prospect of the hue and cry following the discovery of the body was enough to entice those responsible to remain and view proceedings. There was, however, no untoward behaviour save the voyeurism of the curious and no-one sought to steal away unobserved.

"Just made to look like one," Porthos asserted to which Athos merely nodded.

A disturbance separated the onlookers and heralded the arrival of a cart brought from the garrison to remove the body. Shrouded in a blanket to preserve his dignity from prying eyes, Martin Moreau was carefully carried to the cart to begin his final journey back to the home of the musketeers.

As the sorry procession made its way through the archway and into the yard, it was clear that word had spread and all the men within the confines of the garrison had gathered, as was their custom, with hats clutched to chests and heads bowed in a mark of solemn respect.

Treville, formerly the Captain of the regiment until upsetting the King once too often, waited for them at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the room that had been his office and remained his sleeping quarters. His face grim, he watched Athos break away from the arriving group and approach him.

"Who?" he demanded.

"Martin Moreau," Athos explained.

Treville sighed loudly and wiped a hand tiredly over his face. Since his fall from grace, there had been no designated successor and he found himself in the awkward position of having the men still looking to him for direction and leadership whilst the King wanted nothing to do with him. Louis, perceiving that the repeated shortcomings of his own regiment and its erstwhile Captain were a personal slight, tolerated their presence at court for the usual palace duty but preferred, very publicly, to bestow favouritism on Rochefort and the Red Guard. Once, the demise of three musketeers in suspicious circumstances would have been news that Treville imparted to his sovereign without delay and daily updates on the situation would have been demanded but not now. Even if Louis had been prepared to listen, he would have found some way to imply that it was a self-induced misfortune, that the musketeers must have been responsible in some way.

He and Athos waited whilst Moreau was transferred into the ground floor room that was usually used for the injured and ailing and had gained the spurious name of the infirmary as a consequence. They then followed the group inside to where Aramis was ready to begin the bleak task of washing and examining the body more closely.

They stood deferentially to one side as Aramis, assisted by Porthos, stripped the corpse and then sponged down the torso with tepid water before leaning in to investigate the marks that had attracted Athos' attention back in the alley.

"You might want to come and look at this," he invited.

Athos and Treville approached the table and looked down to where Aramis indicated the scratches in the skin on Moreau's chest. They formed a cross where the vertical line bisected a horizontal one of similar length; each of the four points was then capped by a smaller line.

"It looks familiar," Athos frowned, searching his memory in an attempt to make the connection with where he had seen such a design before.

"I agree," said Treville, "but I'm not remembering from where."

"There was nothing like it on the bodies of Sebastien or Benin. I saw them and I am sure I would have remembered something as obvious as this," Aramis declared. He was referring to the two other musketeers whose untimely deaths had added to unnerve the regiment. Paul Sebastien had been discovered beneath a bridge on the north bank of the Seine, a musket ball lodged in his forehead whilst Henri Benin, the first to die, had been found hanging from a tree in the grounds beyond the palace, supposedly by his own hand.

Athos straightened up from where he had been bending over his former colleague. "Perhaps it did not have to be on the bodies. Sebastien had a torn piece of paper in his hand. Do you have it still?" This last question he directed towards Treville.

"Yes, it's upstairs in the office," Treville said and turned towards the door, the other three close on his heels.

They waited whilst he retrieved a scrap of paper from a drawer and smoothed it out as he lay it down on the desk top. As the four leaned in to view it more closely, it was evident that the incomplete ink image resembled parts of the symbol they had seen carved into Moreau's torso. There was no question; these two deaths were linked at the very least.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

Porthos exhaled the breath he had not realised he had been holding. "Definitely no coincidence then. Now we just have to make the link with Benin. As much as I don't like the thought of him bein' murdered, it sits better than the idea that he took his own life."

Aramis murmured in agreement. It was inconceivable that one of their own could be forced to carry out such an act of desperation with none of them being aware of the depths to which he had apparently sunk. The painful consequence of their initial shock at the discovery of his body was to reduce the inhabitants of the garrison to an embittered and guilt-ridden brooding, their joint sense of culpability occasionally erupting into a burst of misdirected anger between the many men of the regiment. How could they have been so blind to another brother's torment? He had seemed incapable of such deception, such single-mindedness in concealing his anguish from everyone but then, Aramis reasoned, both Porthos and he should have known better, should have understood the extent to which a man could truly hold back on revealing his inner suffering. Had they not been friends with Athos for many years and was not he the master of withholding information, even from those closest to him?

They were the King's élite: skilled, committed and prepared to face any danger, willing to risk life and limb in the pursuit of their duty. Their lives were not always stressful or dictated to by potential menace though. More often than not, theirs was a daily round of routine that bordered on the boring, mundane and menial such as palace duty, training, the taking and re-taking of inventories, weapons cleaning and mucking out the stables. That was another point as to why it was so hard to accept that Benin had been weighted down by the cares of the world. What need had he to resort to suicide? His own circle of friends shook their heads in utter bemusement when asked if there had been something in the musketeer's private life that had taken all rationale hostage, reducing him to a mere shell of a man who saw no recourse to a solution other than violence against himself.

Now that the suggestion of murder had been mooted, the situation was more palatable - if that were at all possible.

"Who found him and brought him in?" Athos suddenly asked. "It wasn't us as we were on guard duty at the palace and didn't hear about his death until we arrived back here in the evening."

"If I remember correctly, it was Dufort and Salomon who responded when the alarm was raised. They cut him down and brought him back. This all happened, as you say, whilst you were at the palace," Treville explained.

Aramis looked thoughtful. "His body had been washed and laid out in readiness of the vigil by the time I saw him. There was nothing remarkable about the body, save for the rope marks at his throat as would be expected following a hanging."

There was a sharp intake of breath – d'Artagnan - and the marksman shut his eyes, cursing himself inwardly for his unintentional insensitivity. He paused and then glanced at Athos.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, knowing that he had inadvertently laid bare a memory that lurked just beneath the fragile self-control of the other man. Circumstances over the previous months had seen Athos return to the emotional precipice that had threatened to lure him to his self-destruction for so many years. His friends and commanding officer had witnessed and railed against his slow unravelling that recent events had instigated. Gradually, they had dragged him back from the treacherous edge and were unanimously comforted when they recognised his small but precious steps turning him towards safety.

Now they eyed him warily, wondering how he would respond to the topic of conversation that must have sparked the unwelcome memory of his wife who, six years before, had been sentenced to hang on his command for the murder of his younger brother, Thomas.

Athos moved awkwardly, his normal, careful composure momentarily unsettled at the mention of the damage imprinted upon the victim's neck.

Then he shrugged.

"There is no need for you to apologise," he reassured his friend, the faintest suggestion of a smile quirking the corners of his mouth. His shifting gaze took in all of them. "Any of you," he re-iterated as if he had heard their silent regrets. "It is I who should be apologising to you all, making you feel that you are treading on shifting sand when in my company; too guarded to speak for fear that your words might upset me. I have wallowed in self-pity for far too long again; there are more pressing matters that demand our time and attention."

The other four men breathed a combined and visible sigh of relief, willingly accepting his declaration at face value but knowing full well that the situation was not so easily resolved for the inner demons that tormented the fifth member of their group were too many and the resultant trauma ran too deep. For now, though, the soldiers were happy to acknowledge Athos' attempted resolve and prepared to support him further in overcoming the ever- unfolding misery created by his wife. Words were not needed as Aramis reached out and squeezed Athos' shoulder.

"So," Porthos announced, rubbing his hands together. "What do we do now?"

"I have the unpleasant duty of writing a letter to Moreau's family and making arrangements for his interment within the next couple of days," Treville announced sombrely.

"And we have many questions to ask," Athos said galvanised into action as he donned his hat and strode towards the door, the other _Inseparables_ hurrying in his wake out into the yard.

...

"We don't seem to 'ave discovered much." Porthos was reflecting upon the sum total of their morning's work as the four walked side by side, leading their horses by the reins held loosely in their hands as they headed towards the farthest reaches of the palace grounds. They had left Treville to the solemn task that he still saw as his responsibility whilst he awaited the King's announcement of his replacement. Informing families of the tragic death of a loved one was probably one of the duties that he would be glad to surrender to someone else and it had crossed Athos' mind to volunteer to relieve him of the onerous task but he hated to be the one to remind the older man – and thereby himself – of the imminent change about to be foisted upon the regiment.

Dufort and Salomon had been assigned a morning guard duty at the palace and, whilst their return was anticipated, the _Inseparables_ had occupied themselves by searching the rooms of the two men who had resided within the garrison's walls. Not expecting to find anything of use, they were not too bothered when they found nothing that would assist them in their inquiries. There was certainly no evidence in Benin's room that would suggest a disturbed mind.

Having checked the duty roster for the evening before Benin was found hanging, they had identified who had been on gate duty and swiftly tracked down the two men to the armoury where they were working on polishing spare belts to keep the leather supple. The pair easily remembered that Benin had left the garrison alone at dusk; the notion that they were likely to have been the last to see him alive – with the exception of a potential murderer - had fixed the minutiae of the encounter in their minds. Athos could not help but hope that their combined recollection was to be relied upon and not the result of a subsequent discussion between the two exploring what they _thought_ they remembered. Benin had appeared to be in reasonable spirits and had paused to exchange a few words with them as he departed but they had never inquired as to his destination. All they knew was that he had turned towards the right on exiting the gateway. If needed, that news gave the four friends a starting point if they felt they had to explore the more familiar haunts of the musketeer brotherhood, although it would narrow down any necessary search if they first ascertained from his friend their usual venues.

Eventually, Dufort and Salomon returned from the palace and the four intercepted them before they had the opportunity to enter mess for some food. Their initial response was to refer the _Inseparables_ to the report they had completed after the incident.

"We started with that," Athos said quietly.

"Then why do you have more questions?" Dufort was immediately on the defensive. "Are you suggesting our report was lacking in some way?"

"I am implying nothing of the kind," Athos stressed, seeking to calm the other soldier and concerned that this was yet another example of how much tempers were frayed by the quick succession of losses to the King's own regiment. "I merely seek a more personal account of what you saw."

By the time the friends had ridden out of the garrison, they had received enough details to ascertain the spot where Benin's body had been discovered by a woodsman and they were intending to search the area more thoroughly when Porthos made his negative observation.

"Oh I don't know," d'Artagnan sought to raise the big man's flagging spirits. "None of the three was married and they did not move in the same friendship grouping. Benin and Moreau both lived within the garrison whilst Sebastien had lodgings less than a mile away."

Porthos narrowed his eyes. "Yeah, and that took us such a long time to find out. Let me see, just how many questions did we have to ask to find that out?"

"We knew that already," Aramis said patiently, understanding that the sarcasm in Porthos' tone was borne of frustration that they had not made as much progress as they had hoped. He tried, as usual, to be the optimist. "Our questions have been fruitful however."

"They have?" Porthos remained sceptical.

"Of course. We know from his friends that Moreau was intending to visit a brothel and the direction Benin was heading in if he was going to get a drink."

Porthos stopped abruptly and the others had continued for several more steps before they and their horses likewise came to a standstill. They waited for him to elaborate.

"Do you know how many brothels there are in Paris?" he demanded.

Aramis pulled a strange expression. "I may have visited some in the past but I am not acquainted with all of them."

"I wasn't suggesting that you did but if we have to start visiting 'em all in order to find the one Moreau went to, it could take us a very long time and that's always assuming he did reach where he intended goin'. You start addin' all the taverns Benin could have gone to, that's even more time and then we're assumin' he went to a tavern. Supposin' he was goin' somewhere else? We actually have no idea where he was headin'."

"Put like that, it does appear to be a little daunting," Aramis admitted.

"But are we downhearted?" d'Artagnan asked, a little too cheerfully.

The three older men looked witheringly at him but it was Porthos who answered. "Yes!"

"No we are not," Athos interrupted.

"What?" Porthos was not quite sure that he had heard correctly.

"We are not downhearted," Athos clarified and pointed in the distance. "From Dufort's description, that is where we are heading and we need the fourth tree from the left," and he set off in the direction of a stand of birch trees.

The identified tree had a growth of lower branches that would have enabled any able man bent on doing himself harm to climb to a necessary height and affix a rope. There was also one that was low enough for someone else to hoist a body from if the intention was to emulate a suicide.

"He said there were rope marks in the bark," Athos went on. "Are those the marks?" He pointed upwards to lines cutting into the bark of the bough as if something had been wound round it several times and pulled tightly.

D'Artagnan leapt upwards, grabbed at the low branch and swung himself up to sit astride it and afford a closer view. "'I'd say so," he confirmed.

"Is there anything else up there?" Athos asked.

The younger man began a closer scrutiny of his perch and where it joined the main trunk. "Nothing else that I can see," and he lowered himself, hanging by his taut arms until he let go and dropped lightly to the ground.

Immediately, Athos began to walk around the tree, his fingers brushing the uneven bark as if searching for something by touch as well as sight. He was round the far side when he spoke again.

"Come and see this," he ordered.

His friends joined him and looked to where he pointed.

Carved into the tree trunk at head height was a symbol and it was exactly the same as the one scratched into Moreau's body and the partial symbol on the scrap of paper that had been in Sebastien's death grip.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Author's note: Thank you to all of you who have already reviewed or marked the story as a 'favourite' and/or highlighted it to follow. I'm delighted to see the number of responses so far. I know the site is experiencing problems showing reviews posted in the last two days but all bar the most recent one have come through to me by email. It was remiss of me not to thank folk yesterday at the start of chapter 2 so please accept my apologies for the oversight and I thank you again now.**_

 _ **I should also have printed a disclaimer. These wonderful characters are, sadly, not my own for the main part although there will be a few who are of my creation. They should be easy to spot!**_

 _ **Also, whilst this is a 'stand alone' multi-chapter work rather than a sequel to my first story 'Renegade', it does make occasional references to events then that occurred several months beforehand. I do not expect anybody to rush off and read that first (although I would be very happy if you did!) so I will endeavour to explain those references in context. All I ask is that those of you familiar with 'Renegade' bear with me when I do that, the first example of which happens early in this chapter, denoted by *.**_

CHAPTER 3

The weary and hungry quartet entered the mess hall in the early evening to find a number of men still eating at various tables and speaking quietly. Looking around at those gathered, Athos spotted Treville sitting alone at a corner table, spoon idly pushing the contents of a bowl around without raising any to his lips. In the weeks since the group had returned from Pinon where Athos had rescinded his claim to the family title and given over his lands to his tenants, Treville had visibly begun to spend more time in the communal areas but always on the periphery, as if unsure as to his reception by the other musketeers. It was as if the man was avoiding being in what had been his office any more than was absolutely necessary. It had been his working domain for so long that the very timbers of the structure seemed to have absorbed the essence of the man's character. Although pride in his past achievements meant that he would never let the mandatory paperwork slip, being within the confines of the four walls could not help but be a constant reminder of all that he had had and all that he had now lost and so he opted to escape whenever the opportunity arose, even if it were only to wield a pitch fork and muck out the stables. He was, in his own mind, only an ordinary soldier after all. It was a humiliating and tragic way to end a career that had brought him such recognition, respect and the ear of the King.

But no longer!

Many of the men were awkward in his presence, not knowing how to communicate their own grief and shock at his treatment by the King. To them, he was their father figure, their guide and leader and without his steadying hand at the helm, they felt directionless. Indeed, Treville himself was a man cast adrift on a seething sea, paddling with only his hands against a turbulent tide that tossed him about mercilessly. To a man, they still looked to him for instructions and called him 'Captain' for what else could he possibly be to them? And how could they know that every time they addressed him as such, it was like a knife wound to his soul that went deeper with each thrust?

The man could not be faulted on his attempt to maintain appearances and standards though. His uniform remained impeccable, his moustache and beard regularly trimmed, thinning hair neatly brushed. The brusque exterior remained but there were subtle changes in the man and to those who knew him well, they screamed their presence, especially at unguarded moments such as this one in the mess hall.

Picking at food had become a habit of late and Athos was convinced the belt around the loosely hanging doublet was cinched at least one notch tighter. There was more grey in the sandy hair and beard than before and the lines at the corner of his eyes seemed to be etched more prominently, the evidence of a deep-seated pain. The mouth was kept in a severe line, the temper – fiery at best but never unjustified – held tightly under control for fear of an unwarranted outburst. His complexion was waxen and grey, the dark circles around the eyes proof of the lack of restorative sleep.

And it was those eyes that spoke most to Athos. Ever mindful of a saying of his Mother's that the eyes were a window to the soul, the thing that bothered Athos most about the older man was the dull bleakness that now resided there. It was as if the light had gone out and he felt helpless to rekindle it, to draw alongside his friend and mentor and re-ignite the zest for life and leadership that deservedly should be there. He owed Treville so much over the years, not least in the recent events at Pinon and before that, when Richelieu was still alive and had sought to destroy Treville and the Musketeer regiment once and for all with the assistance of one of their own, namely Delacroix.* How could Athos have survived the aftermath of the battle at the maison-forte, traumatised by his own overwhelmingly irrational guilt and responsibility at the deaths of so many of his brothers, without the comfort and wise counsel of the man who sat before him now, a mere shadow of his former self?

Now the King's regiment was under dire threat again: firstly with the repercussions of Treville's demotion and secondly with the murders that were shaking the stability of the brotherhood.

As the _Inseparables_ threaded their way through the tables to the one where Treville sat, the other soldiers fell silent and eyed them keenly yet warily for they knew the friends had been tasked with investigating the recent deaths and that their questions had been levelled thus far to some of their own. The growing fear amongst all of them was that the new attack was another being launched from within. How much more treachery could the beleaguered regiment sustain? Tension already ran at an all-time high so any blossoming suspicion that a musketeer could be responsible would lead to fingers being pointed in erroneous directions and that would be tantamount to someone lighting a fuse and standing back to watch the resultant explosion.

Treville became aware of the movement towards his table and looked up just as Athos slid into the vacant seat beside him. Immediately his bleak expression melted away and he fixed a small smile of welcome and interest on his features.

"Well?" he demanded, eager to know what they had discovered for they had been absent for many hours. He watched as the other three sank tiredly into seats and nodded appreciatively to Serge who had instantly followed them, carrying bowls of steaming mutton stew, a loaf of bread and spoons.

"Get started on that an' I'll bring you some wine," the old soldier instructed gruffly and disappeared again. Without hesitation, three of them fell upon the repast, their first food since they had broken their fast at daybreak.

Although hungry himself, Athos refrained from eating until he had delivered a succinct summary of what they had uncovered during the morning, ending with what they had found on the birch tree.

"Irrefutable evidence that Benin was a murder victim too for a dead man does not rise and scratch a symbol on the body of another dead man," he concluded and dipped his spoon into the bowl to take a mouthful of stew at last.

Treville watched as the men ate and sipped at the wine Serge had brought. "I wrote to Moreau's family and made some arrangements for his funeral to be in two day's time. Then I started to make some notes on what I could say; ideas were easier to come by than for Sebastien. I feel as if I hardly knew the man; there was so little anyone could tell me about him, other than the fact that he thought the world of his mother, although he no longer resided with her but preferred to rent his own rooms. She lived nearby and he evidently visited her frequently. I re-read the report after his death; she was the one who raised the alarm that he was missing as he failed to arrive for a pre-arranged visit." He thought for a moment. "I suppose I ought to speak to the priest again about Benin and arrange an additional ceremony. He was laid to rest in the cemetery without due ceremony because he was believed to be a suicide but now we know otherwise, that should be rectified as quickly as possible."

Aramis nodded on agreement. "Perhaps something could be settled for the same day as Moreau."

Silence descended on the group as the men concentrated on eating their fill. Porthos was the first to finish and, pushing his empty bowl away from him, he took up the account of their investigations.

"This afternoon we found the brothel where Moreau had spent his last hours - Madame Angelique's." He grinned at the memory of their success: they had found the correct establishment at the fifth attempt.

"Anything less like an angel a person would be hard to find," Aramis ventured. "Large, matronly and far beyond her prime."

Porthos snorted. "He's only upset because Madame Angelique was impervious to his charms. She obviously prefers her clients to be on the more youthful side," and he teasingly ruffled d'Artagnan's hair.

The youngest musketeer dipped his head, a crimson flush creeping up his neck and his narrow escape from the clutches of the overly affectionate madame an exceedingly embarrassing experience.

"From what she told us, he was not bothered about anything and there were no other clients last night who seemed to be taking an interest in his being there. We spoke to the girl he was with who claimed he left her at about eleven but no-one actually saw him leave the premises so there was no-one who could say whether or not anyone might have been waiting for him in the street," Athos added.

"We also went back to the place where he was found outside and had another word with the tavern keeper. He was adamant that Moreau had not been in there last night but he was still acting strangely," Porthos went on, "so we leaned on him a little bit. Seems there were two men in there, strangers, and they were very suspicious; heads together talking low and the like but as he was clearin' a nearby table, he swears he 'eard 'em mention the musketeers. Course, 'e couldn't remember anythin' else that was actually useful. 'E'd never seen 'em before and didn't seem to 'ave any idea what they looked like but I reckon he's worth another visit."

"If we keep the pressure on, perhaps he will be more forthcoming," Athos said with disconcerting innocence.

"We could spend the next few evenings there," d'Artagnan suggested to him. "Just to see if they returned."

"As they had supposedly never been there before, it's unlikely that they would return, especially if they were the one's responsible for Moreau's death. We have no guarantee that what the tavern keeper claims he heard was accurate. He might have said that just to keep us happy." Athos eyed Porthos and raised an eyebrow; evidently Porthos' idea of 'leaning' on the man might have frightened him a little too much.

"I'm getting to the stage where we might have to review how much freedom the men have," Treville interrupted. "They need to be safe, not taking unnecessary risks on the Paris streets. I would not be comfortable with some of you undertaking such tasks, not at the moment."

"We wouldn't think of going about alone anyway," d'Artagnan insisted. "We'd be in pairs. The murderer has picked musketeers when they were on their own."

Treville slammed his palm down on the wooden table top, the noise startling the men at the other tables and briefly drawing their attention. "Three murdered musketeers and Louis does not care," he hissed angrily.

"I take it you had no more success in gaining access to the King today than yesterday?" Athos inquired.

Sitting back in his chair, one arm draped seemingly casually over the back, Treville fiddled with his spoon in the other hand, dragging the end of its handle along a join in the wood of the table top and refusing to meet the gazes of the four men who sat with him. "Rochefort took great delight in informing me that His Majesty was otherwise engaged this morning. When I offered to wait or to return later, he had the nerve to say he expected that the King would be busy this afternoon as well. I tried to press him, insisting that it was regimental business but then he said that Louis had planned to be privately entertaining a guest and had given clear instructions that he was not to be disturbed on any account."

He paused and looked up, directly at Athos who felt his own throat constrict and he struggled to swallow at the unspoken message. The King was intent upon spending the afternoon entertaining his mistress ... Milady de Winter ... Ann ... Athos' wife, the woman he had loved passionately – still did in his own way if he were truly honest with himself – and condemned to die for her crime.

As the Comte de la Fère, it had been incumbent upon him to mete out the relevant justice upon the Comtesse for stabbing his brother to death. Torn between his all-consuming love for Ann and the need to demonstrate impartiality, he had been incapable of seeing the punishment carried out and had ridden away, unable to remain on his estate at Pinon with its traumatic memories. Hell-bent on self-destruction through his excessive alcohol consumption and subsequently reckless capacity for fighting, he had ultimately been saved when he secured a commission in the Musketeer regiment and was mentored by Treville who immediately saw, amongst other things, his undeniable skill as a swordsman and the raw potential for leadership. The process was aided by the slow-burning hand of friendship extended by Aramis and Porthos as they sought to draw the obviously troubled man out of himself.

It was five years before the young Comte discovered that his wife still lived, having escaped the noose by seducing her executioner, the simple blacksmith, and was in Paris acting as the dangerous agent and assassin in the employment of the First Minister of France, Cardinal Richelieu. A constant in her wardrobe was a thick collar of jewellery or silken band – anything that would mask the mark of the hangman's rope that had been burned into the delicate skin of her neck, branding her for life. Her desire for revenge on her musketeer husband and machinations against his friends brought him to the verge of killing her once more, this time by his own hand but, at the last moment, he had shown mercy and banished her but not before she had triumphantly stripped away the ribbon at her throat to demonstrate the legacy of his handiwork, the image of which was forever implanted in his mind.

For a while, after her departure, he had begun to experience a sort of peace that had hitherto escaped him for far too long; his friends noting that his excessive drinking had abated and he was sleeping more soundly, the nightmares that pervaded his rest finally diminishing so that he started to lose the haunted look that was his constant shadow.

That was until she defied his order and was found again in France. She was the principle activist in saving the lives of both the King and d'Artagnan when they were abducted by slavers and was soon ensconced in the palace as the monarch's mistress. As a result, the attempt to drown his spiralling thoughts in alcohol and the nightmares had resumed and his friends were incapable of encouraging Athos to speak of the torment that tore him apart. It was on one such night, barely a month before the musketeer deaths had begun, that his determined drinking left him at his most vulnerable and he was easily seized by his tenants who returned him to his estate, imploring him to protect them from the unwelcome attention of a land-grabbing baronial neighbour.

When his worried friends and Treville had at last discovered his whereabouts, they found him at his most intractable and unapproachable as he wrestled with his inner demons and struggled against the warring emotions that had been resurrected by his return to the family seat. His family's long history with what it entailed, his innate sense of responsibility and anguished memories all battled with his flight instinct and were on the verge of destroying him until he resolved to surrender his title and give the land to his tenants. Before that, he and his comrades had had to train the villagers to defend themselves against the Baron and his men and what had followed was a pitched battle with heavy losses on both sides, not least the Baron's sole heir who had considered himself the only possible successor to the de la Fère estate.

Whilst the giving up of his title, Pinon and its associations had begun to afford him an uneasy peace, the presence of his wife at the palace and paraded publicly as the King's mistress, was still too much to bear. To have her flaunted before the Queen and court, even though none of them knew of his own link with her, was humiliating and whenever he drew palace duty and their paths crossed, he could not help believing that the contemptuous smile she cast in his direction was an open challenge, daring him to follow through with his threat to kill her and thereby risk the King's wrath and retaliation.

To know that she was the probable reason that kept his Captain from having a much-needed audience with the King was the final insult and his jaw clenched as he fought to suppress his anger. The musketeers desperately needed the support of their patron and King and that was being denied them, being denied Treville and that was the ultimate slur on this man's honour. What had he ever done to be treated like this? And Ann was party to it. He could not be sure of it but he did not think her incapable of being involved somehow.

He looked at Treville. "The King persists in refusing to speak with you. Is there a possible link with the deaths? That someone is taking advantage of our present situation and carrying out these attacks?"

There was no time for an answer as the door to the mess hall was thrown open and a musketeer rushed in breathlessly, his eyes wild. "You'd better come!" he shouted, his eyes on the men at the corner table. "There's a fire on the Rue de Jour. It's Thibaut's house and he and all his family are trapped inside!"


	4. Chapter 4

_**Dear all, I can't access any reviews at present but have watched the number changing. Many thanks to all of you who continue to comment and support so encouragingly. As soon as the site is fixed, I will respond to all of you. Until then, here is the next chapter but I will give an advance warning that the content is somewhat grim in nature.**_

CHAPTER 4

It had been a long night and one that had passed without sleep. As the fingers of dawn clawed their way across the eastern sky, Serge eased his aching bones down onto a bench in the middle of the mess hall and surveyed the empty room, his eyes misting as he thought on the comings and goings of men since the previous evening and the sad reason that presaged their activity. For many hours though, he had seen and heard from no-one, their extended absence nothing less than ominous. He, the kitchen boy and anyone else who remained had prepared all that they could in readiness for the group's return for they would have need of sustenance at the very least. All he could do now was take stock of his arrangements and wait.

When the alarm had been raised at the garrison the evening before, there had been an immediate exodus, meals abandoned. Time was not wasted in saddling mounts; instead the men had broken into a run, over twenty of them with Porthos and d'Artagnan leading the way. Serge listened as the thundering sound of their footsteps across the yard and through the arch receded as they disappeared from view.

Duties over, other musketeers arrived at the mess hall and were instantly struck by the lack of colleagues. As soon as Serge divulged the reason, they were gone, hunger and tiredness forgotten in their desire to join comrades as quickly as possible to offer their assistance.

Now there was only silence. The kitchen boy, who become less productive as the night wore on, yawned widely over his tasks and eventually, at the nod from the old soldier, had curled up on the floor as close to the warmth of the oven as he could whilst still allowing Serge access to pull out freshly baked loaves and replace them with another batch. He told himself that he had to be kept busy, had to keep himself occupied, had to stop himself from thinking about those poor children …

Two of them, a boy and girl aged six and three respectively, were the centre of their father's world. Serge could remember when each of them was born and how excited Thibaut had been; how the mess had rung with celebratory singing and the imbibing of much ale as many of the musketeers had joined in congratulating the new father on the latest addition to his family. Frequently, Thibaut would proudly share their smallest achievement and Serge would listen with a genuine smile on his face. Party to each step of their development, he felt that he had known them a lifetime when he eventually met them quite by accident in the market. Thibaut was buying ribbons for his wife and daughter when they paused to exchange pleasantries and little Clara had held up her new rag doll to the old soldier to seek his approval. Serge had praised the neatness of the blonde woollen braids, her patchwork dress made from a range of colourful scraps of material and the cherubic embroidered smile, all courtesy of her mother for her third birthday. Mariana Thibaut was a skilled seamstress, making all the children's clothing and her husband's finely stitched linen shirts. It brought her occasional commissions from some of the musketeers and more than once had procured work from Constance Bonacieux when the orders had been piling up in the months before d'Artagnan had recommended the woman he loved as a companion to the Queen. Constance had then suggested to a number of her regular customers that they seek to employ the services of the talented Madame Thibaut.

The Thibaut family was an example of happiness and contentment. All seemed to be going so well for them. He was one of the few married men in the regiment and he was proof that such a domestic arrangement could work successfully. Mariana was a soldier's wife, resigned to the risks he could encounter when called to protect his King but she was proud of her man and deeply in love with him; that much was evident to anyone who witnessed her lips part into a warm smile, the gleam in her eyes and the soft flush creep across her cheeks whenever she saw him.

Now danger had gone to meet them and in the place where they should have been safe. Serge wondered what could have started the fire and was fearful at the thought of the bolts of material that Mariana would have stored within the house; they would have added a ready fuel to the hungry flames.

The rattle of a cart's wheels stirred him from his reverie and he held his breath. That sound had signalled some terrible arrivals of late as three musketeer bodies had been brought home. Reluctantly, he dragged himself to his feet and from there to the door, opening it slowly to see what awaited him.

It was not good.

The horse-drawn cart entered slowly through the arch, the horse's head drooping as if it could not cope with its sorry responsibility as it delivered his worst fear – the covered shape suggested more than one corpse in the bed of the cart.

The nightmarish quality of the sight was further exacerbated by the demeanour of the men who accompanied it, some thirty-three in all. They moved sluggishly in a silent, dream-like state, their eyes wide and red-rimmed whilst the whites were in stark contrast to their smoke-blackened skin. All carried their leather doublets either over one shoulder or dragging along the ground in a hand too tired to lift it any higher. Untucked shirts had sleeves rolled up to the elbows and everything - hair, skin, linen and leather – was begrimed through fighting the hostile conflagration. Worse than that, the tell-tale odour of the fire clung to them and infiltrated the very air that surrounded them. In short, they stank.

Serge retreated to the doorway of the mess hall and yelled out for the kitchen boy. "Paul, hurry up and bring out that water we've been keeping hot." He indicated to the two lines of empty bowls, soap and cloths that he had laid ready and invited the men to clean themselves as best they could before going inside to eat. He watched as they obediently began to strip off shirts and awaited the water.

Not a word had passed anybody's lips, their silence unnerving. He did not need to ask any questions; he had seen the same reaction too many times in the aftermath of bitterly fought battles. These men were exhausted to the point of dropping, all reserves of energy long gone, and they had been witness to a horror that defied description. A few of them stopped to help carry the covered bodies into the infirmary and Serge felt the rush of tears to his eyes as two men were easily able to carry a small bundle each. It had to be the children. He saw Aramis inhale a great shuddering breath and Porthos put a comforting arm around his shoulders as they followed the corpses inside.

D'Artagnan had dropped his soiled shirt to the floor and moved as if to begin washing himself when instead, he gripped the table edge in both hands, his arms extended and taut as he bowed his head, his eyes tightly shut against the world and the memory of what had happened during the night. Athos paused long enough to rest a comforting hand upon the young man's shoulder before both he and Treville approached the cook, their movements lethargic.

"I have food ready; you all must be hungry. Some of the men didn't finish meals last night or missed them completely," Serge offered,

"Thank you," Treville acknowledged. "It is welcome but please do not be offended if the men have little stomach for it."

"A rough night?" Serge asked.

Athos nodded and ran a hand through filthy, knotted hair. "About as rough as it can get," he agreed. "We could not get to them. The house was well alight by the time we got there; they all perished. We have spent the rest of the night working with local people to save the neighbouring houses otherwise the whole street could have been destroyed. It's only in the last hour that we have deemed it safe enough to leave."

"It is so sad," Serge's voice caught as he thought of the lost family. "They were so lovely; it is not fair. Do you know how the fire started?"

Treville shook his head. "We will go back and examine the ruin but for now we needed to come back, eat and rest. The men need the chance to grieve. This is the fourth member of the regiment to be lost now in little over a week and everyone is reeling; they cannot absorb what is happening."

"Come and eat," the cook urged.

"Soon," Treville said. "I need to freshen up first."

He and Athos waited at the table for a space and Paul refilled two bowls for them as they soaped their arms and torsos.

Porthos reappeared and joined them.

"How is Aramis doing?" Athos asked.

"Holding together – just. I know I ought to have stayed with him as he tended them but I couldn't look on their remains anymore, especially the little ones." He sniffed and focused on rubbing hard at his arms in an attempt to scrub himself clean. Not one of them could bring himself to admit though that the smell of the fire still filled his nostrils and that was what he inhaled and exhaled all the time. At least all of them had eventually ceased the coughing that wracked their frames after the smoke inhalation, although their chests still ached with the effort.

Porthos dried his face and, as he lowered the cloth, asked the question that had been uppermost in his mind. "You both saw it, didn't you?"

"Yes," Athos and Treville murmured in unison. No-one could have failed to see the same symbol daubed large on the wall of the house opposite in charcoal. The fire at the Thibaut household which had tragically claimed the lives of the young family had been no accident.

D'Artagnan's comment of the day before that the killer or killers only targeted lone musketeers was no longer true. None of them was safe, not even their families. Everyone in the regiment was in mortal danger and until they could identify or remember the significance of the ever-recurring symbol, they did not know where to start in their search for justice for they could not think of anything that linked the four dead men. The chilling realisation was that Thibaut's family were totally innocent of what lay behind the killings; they just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and that meant that those responsible were desperate and cold-hearted, hell-bent on achieving their aim, whatever that might be.

Treville threw his cloth down on the table and stood, hands on hips as he looked around at his shattered men. Suddenly he assumed a grim determination in his eyes that Athos had not seen for a long time. The regiment was at its most vulnerable, especially as it did not have any recognised authority figure. Well, if the King was going to neglect his duty, Treville was not going to tolerate it any more. As the men still looked to him for leadership, then he would lead them and if the King did not like it, then he would have to do something about it, such as changing his decision regarding Treville and formally re-instating him as Captain - not that he realistically expected that- or at least making a prompt decision as to his successor.

"Athos," he said in a tone that had been sadly missing since his motivational speech to the villagers at Pinon, "get cleaned up and change. You're coming with me to the palace. If the King won't listen to me, we'll do everything we can to make sure he listens to you. I don't care how long it takes but I swear that I will neither eat nor sleep until he has damn well listened to one of us."


	5. Chapter 5

**_A/N: Dear all, I cannot apologise enough for my silence and keeping you waiting for this next chapter. The first week of the new year work-wise was utterly manic and time consuming and then I was taken ill which floored me for over a week. Thank you SO much to all those who are reading, following and commenting. It has really cheered me up at a time when I felt really low. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I hope this chapter will make up for the delay._**

CHAPTER 5

Athos sat on a wooden chair in the ornately decorated long corridor leading to the presence chamber of the King. It was nearly three in the afternoon and so far neither he nor Treville had been admitted to the monarch's presence at all. They had now been kept waiting for nearly six hours and it was increasingly unlikely that they were going to have the opportunity of an audience before the day was out. An empty chair was set beside him, its occasional occupant engaged in one of his frustrated pacing sessions.

As the day had worn on and they had been repeatedly refused entry into the inner chamber, the renewed assuredness that had been evident shortly after daybreak had begun to wane. The change had been slow at first. It was as if Treville had initially anticipated his path being blocked by Rochefort and two of the Red Guard and so he had taken it in his stride. However, when he and Athos had later joined the tail end of the line of petitioners seeking an audience with the Bourbon king, they had been surprised when the guards had prevented their progress and closed the double doors in their faces.

From that moment, Treville's downward spiral had been tangible, beginning with his descent into barely concealed anger and then, as the morning had passed into afternoon, a mood of despondency had gripped the man. His grumbling had given way to oaths muttered under his breath until, for the past hour, he had fallen silent.

As the last of the morning's visitors had been shown out, the two musketeers had tried to seek admission once more and were again rebuffed. The King had left by another exit to have his lunch.

So they remained in the corridor in order to retain their position at the head of the queue for the afternoon session as the next group of petitioners gathered. In the past and unashamedly within the hearing of a select few - namely the Queen, senior advisors, Treville and those Musketeers on duty – Louis had frequently voiced his dislike of these audiences with minor nobles and ordinary people, complaining that there were enough persons in his employment to undertake this rudimentary task on his behalf. Consequently, he avoided them wherever possible but the late Cardinal Richelieu had always maintained that this personal approach with his subjects stood him in good stead as unarguable evidence that he was not unapproachable and that he was, indeed, imbued with a care and concern for the wellbeing of the general French populace. There were certainly enough other opportunities for the country's inhabitants to believe differently, especially when they were bowed under heavy taxation.

Louis attempted to keep the meetings to a minimum but intermittently - and when the King had failed to create a valid diversion - both a morning and afternoon session were scheduled. It was to one of these that Treville and Athos had hoped to gain entry as they had failed to obtain Louis' attention at any other time. They were aghast when the new petitioners were ultimately swept past them whilst four Red Guards held them back.

"Take your hands off me," Treville spat out. "Who do you think you are?"

"An ordinary soldier," a guard sneered contemptuously, "just like you."

"Why, you…" The previous Captain of the King's musketeers lost his resolve to remain calm and leaped forward, preparing to teach the disrespectful miscreant a lesson that he would never forget but his way was suddenly barred as Athos stepped in between them, his face an inscrutable mask as his strong hands held back the former officer by the shoulders.

"Do not sink to their level. This is exactly what Rochefort wants; that between them, he and his guards can goad some kind of reaction from you. Don't give them that satisfaction."

Treville was listening and nodded his reluctant agreement as he relaxed under Athos' hands.

"That's it, Treville. Listen to your drunken lapdog. Seems he's talking some sense for once," the same man insisted.

Athos rolled his eyes and then fixed Treville with a meaningful stare. "On the other hand, it does not mean that I have to listen to the insults directed at the pair of us. Allow me."

Before Treville had time to respond, Athos moved with frightening speed. The guards were still laughing amongst themselves at the personal slight that had been successfully delivered when the one who had the most to say for himself suddenly found himself slammed against the opposite wall, a strong arm at his throat and constricting his windpipe. His eyes bulged in terror as he struggled to draw breath, a strange gurgling sound emanating from him.

"Move and you will regret it," ordered Treville, obviously keeping the other three guards under control behind Athos.

The tall but slender musketeer who held fast to the insolent man moved in closer. His words were hissed softly but their underlying danger was beyond doubt and the Red Guard knew in an instant that he had seriously underestimated this man.

"You will keep a civil tongue in your head. _Captain_ Treville will rise above this minor setback. You are not even worthy of being something unpleasant on the sole of that man's boot; just remember that. The King is temporarily blinded by some very poor advice and we all know where that is coming from, don't we?" Athos paused as if awaiting an answer but the guard merely struggled under his hold. The Musketeer leaned in, his additional weight eliciting a strangled squeak from the man between him and the wall. "Don't we?" he repeated and his prisoner managed an erratic nod in agreement.

"Rein in your man, Treville," came a familiarly supercilious tone.

Athos did not immediately relinquish his hold and felt the uncomfortably cold prick of rapiers on either side of his own throat. He froze, not trusting the Red Guards to hold their position and not wanting to invite a vengeful retaliation.

"Stand down," Rochefort ordered.

The weapons at his skin disappeared and Athos backed away from the guard who doubled over, coughing and gagging as he endeavoured to draw breath into his starved lungs.

Athos took in the sight around him; the corridor seemed to have suddenly filled with Rochefort's men so that he and Treville were at an instant disadvantage. Sighing, he stood straight, held his hands out by his sides in a gesture of submission and moved slowly to stand beside the older Musketeer.

"Not quite the behaviour one would expect of someone eager to be granted an audience with the King," Rochefort said. The carefully enunciated condescension in his tone caused the other two men to stiffen in vexation.

"I would not expect guards to be deliberately provocative in their behaviour and comments either," Treville growled. "Unless, of course, they are behaving in a manner that is in keeping with your instruction."

"You surely are not expecting me to defend or deny that accusation," Rochefort laughed, the sound devoid of all mirth.

"Obviously not," the older man responded, "but you'll permit me to keep my own opinion."

Rochefort gave a disdainful nod of the head. "That is your prerogative naturally."

Treville took a deep breath. "I would have an audience with the King, Rochefort. The Musketeers are his regiment and, at the moment, they are under serious attack. Someone must update His Majesty to these events and be in a….."

"Oh but he does know," Rochefort interrupted haughtily. "In the regiment's current sad position of being without recognisable leadership, I have taken it upon myself to inform the King of the unfortunate circumstances."

"Unfortunate circumstances!" Treville bellowed in disbelief. "Four men have been deliberately murdered, the innocent wife and two children of one of them also slain and you dare to stand there and call these 'unfortunate circumstances!'"

Rochefort merely shrugged as if he did not understand why Treville was apparently so upset. Then he scowled and his voice was scathing. "How else would you have me describe it, Treville? Not only have you and your incompetent little band of toy soldiers deeply offended His Majesty of late but you have obviously gone out of your way to hurt at least one other person so that he – or she – is determined to exact revenge in any way, shape or form. If you are so single-minded in making enemies, you should not be surprised when they decide to retaliate. Perhaps you need to look to your own and start asking some relevant questions about their behaviour or even to that of yourself."

The possibility had already crossed the minds of the two musketeers that they were dealing with someone who sought retribution for some past action but until they were cognisant of a motive, their attempts to find the perpetrator were hampered.

Treville roared in anger and made as if to advance upon Rochefort but Athos dared to restrain him once more with an outstretched hand.

"And what, pray, have you seen fit to inform His Majesty?" he asked with his usual calmness.

"The main details, of course; that four musketeers and the family of one have perished by different means in some nine days," Rochefort answered.

"That's very specific," Athos noted. "Nine days. You are well informed."

"Correct me if I am wrong but that is the duration since the first murder."

Athos nodded affirmatively and then his green eyes narrowed as a thought struck him. "How did you know the first death was a murder? Until yesterday morning, that death was believed to be a suicide and there are only five of us who know otherwise. What do you know of these deaths?"

Rochefort laughed again and threw up his hands. "Oh my goodness, musketeer! What are you expecting from me? A confession?"

Jaw-muscles clenching, Athos fought to keep his temper.

"Are you honestly so naïve to think you weren't seen going back yesterday to the area where your first colleague was found? Do you not realise that I sent observers to monitor your every move and, after your departure, to find what so fascinated you about a tree? It was an interesting little carving that they found in the trunk, wasn't it? I suspect that it has some relevance. That carving and the subsequent deaths of three more men by foul means certainly brings that suicide into question. I have already apprised the King of that."

"We would prefer to inform His Majesty ourselves. Why have we persistently been denied the opportunity to speak to him in person?" Treville insisted.

Rochefort stepped closer, the move designed to be intimidating but partially failing as he had to look up slightly at the taller man. "Do you not understand yet, Treville? You are persona non grata. The King is greatly displeased with you and cannot bear to have you in his sight, the prospect of which is a constant, painful reminder of just how badly you have betrayed him."

"Now listen here …" Athos began, intent upon defending the man he revered above all others.

This time, it was Treville's hand who stayed him. Standing straight and frowning, the ex-officer's voice was strong. "Then I would prefer to hear that from the King himself rather than second hand."

"You'd better be prepared for an extended wait," Rochefort warned.

"We have waited for several hours thus far so we can wait longer still. On the other hand, if Louis will not listen to me, then I would hope that he would give an audience to Athos here. He has been leading the investigations."

Rochefort looked from Treville to the younger man and his brow furrowed dismissively. "He has not shown much skill in investigating so far. Are you sure that you have the right man for the job?"

Treville refused to be drawn into an argument so Rochefort shrugged again and continued. "If I remember rightly, Monsieur Athos here was involved in all the debacles that ultimately led to your downfall. I am surprised, therefore, that you would entrust him with such an important task as identifying the perpetrator of these crimes and I find it difficult to believe that the King would be more prepared to give him the time of day than you. You can continue waiting here all you want, gentlemen, but you had better get used to the idea that you will not be seeing the King today or any other day."

So saying, Rochefort's farewell dip of the head was both curt and dismissive as he walked away, surrounded by his men. He disappeared through the double doors into the King's presence chamber, leaving the original four guarding the entrance as before, the smirks on their faces showing that they were aware that they held the victory over the Musketeers for the time being.

Athos felt the shame burning in his face and he dared not look in Treville's direction. He would never forget the moment when the _Inseparables_ had entered the garrison yard to be met by the Captain, his face ashen as he read and re-read the official parchment in his hand. The control the man had over his voice and emotions as he told them of the letter's contents was admirable. He exonerated them of any responsibility as he went on to tell them that he had been stripped of his rank. Despite his words, Athos could not shake off the feeling of guilt that they were to blame in part for they had been out-manoeuvred at every turn and their actions misrepresented to the king. For that, Treville was being made the scapegoat and all because he had dared to turn down the King's more than gracious offer to join his council following Richelieu's death, preferring to pursue the military life instead because that was what he knew and loved best. Louis had known just where and how to hurt the loyal man the most and Athos knew that Rochefort had played his part, pouring his poisonous words into the royal ear.

His reverie was broken by a hand on his shoulder. "I didn't blame you or your brothers then and I do not do so now." It was as if Treville had read his thoughts. "I displeased the King and he seized every opportunity after that to reinforce his discontentment."

So they had settled down again on the uncomfortable wooden chairs to wait … and wait … and wait. Time seemed to have slowed down inexorably and Treville had taken to his relentless pacing as five o'clock approached, at which point he knew the King would not admit anyone else that day and those not heard thus far would be sent away to return when Louis next deemed himself available.

Suddenly he rounded on the younger man who sat quietly, his legs outstretched and appearing utterly relaxed. He did not seem to have even shifted position in the three hours since Rochefort had left them.

"You are annoying me," Treville declared.

Athos merely raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"How can you sit still for so long? We have been here for almost eight hours without success. It is pointless both of us wasting our time any longer. Go on back to the garrison, eat and get some sleep for you had none last night," Treville ordered.

"And what do you propose to do?" Athos countered.

"I shall stay here. The King will know that I am not to be so easily deterred so I shall remain until I have an audience."

"I have no intention of leaving here without you, especially as you have already refused food and sleep. Your decision to remain here to await His Majesty's convenience gives him the better position to wear you down; by default, all you can achieve is making yourself ill by such a protest," Athos pointed out.

"Then what do you suggest? I presume that whilst you have been sitting there motionless, you have been formulating a plan."

"Actually," Athos said, rising to his feet, "I have two. Stay here and just hope that the King does not make his exit along this corridor before I return."


	6. Chapter 6

**_A/N Thank you so much for all the positive feedback on yesterday's chapter and your well wishes; I do feel even better today._**

 ** _So, today finds Treville and Athos still waiting at the palace and you will be discovering what Athos' two plans are. Will they work? This is actually the first of three consecutive longer chapters (still trying to make up for keeping you waiting). So much I could hint at about today's chapter and ones to come imminently but I shall be good and leave you to read and judge! I look forward, as ever, to hearing from you._**

CHAPTER 6

Treville maintained his pacing, unable to settle as he awaited Athos' return and wondered about the younger man's intentions. One of the doors to the presence chamber opened briefly and the musketeer looked towards it nervously but the royal party did not emerge; it was one of the guards who whispered something to those positioned outside the chamber. They all looked pointedly in his direction and smirked knowingly at his expense before the newcomer disappeared back into the room. Treville wondered what new humiliation was being plotted.

Footsteps echoing along an empty corridor alerted him to the potential approach of Athos and he was relieved to see the familiar figure round a corner and come into view, striding purposefully in his direction.

"Right," Athos began, handing over a piece of paper. "I have been presumptuous and written to the Queen on your behalf, requesting that she intervene with the King to allow us an audience. All I have to do is get the letter to her."

"Good thinking," Treville acknowledged, perusing the letter's contents and nodding his approval. "Where did you get the paper? It seems of good quality, too good to be left lying around somewhere."

Athos had a range of expressions, none of them particularly extreme but he always employed them to good effect and now was no exception. There was the customary raising of one brow as if in gentle surprise that anything should be asked of him when the answer, perhaps, was somewhat obvious. This time, he accompanied it with a slight twitching at the corners of his mouth, an inkling that he was feeling very pleased with himself and endeavouring to suppress a broader smile.

"Short of that being used by the King himself, it is of exceptional quality and most definitely was not left lying around. I had to search for it in a desk," he explained and went no further.

Treville had been forced to 'play' this game with Athos on many a previous occasion. The former comte would decide to divulge only a certain amount of information and in order to obtain the rest, the listener either had to be adept at working out the remainder for himself or know exactly which questions to ask. For a man who held integrity and honesty so highly, Athos was a master at misdirection or manipulating the truth when he so desired.

"Dare I ask to whom the desk belonged?" Treville ventured, wondering if he really wanted to know and fearing that he might already have the correct idea.

"Rochefort," Athos replied blithely.

"Roche…!" Treville spluttered. "Do you have a death wish? No, don't answer that. Why did it have to belong to him?"

Athos gave a slight shrug for the reason was plain to him. "His was the first suite of rooms that I reached so I slipped in and appropriated what I needed; I knew he would have paper, pen and ink somewhere."

"And if you had been discovered 'appropriating' said requirements, what then?"

"I weighed up all probabilities. There was no-one else in sight and I knew that Rochefort was occupied elsewhere with the King. It is not a long missive and did not take much time."

"Its length is immaterial! You could have got yourself into serious trouble with the man if he had caught you in his rooms."

"But I wasn't," Athos rationalised and now he gave a disarming grin. "As he has been instrumental in preventing you from seeing the King, it was only fitting that his paper and ink were used in the writing of a message seeking a royal audience."

Treville could not avoid giving a low chuckle, amused as he was by the irony of the situation and the younger musketeer's foolish recklessness. He was distracted from saying anything further by the opening of the doors to the presence chamber. In an instant, Treville understood why the guards had behaved so arrogantly. Instead of using the exit that had taken Louis in the direction of his lunch, this route was designed to deliberately take the royal party past the waiting musketeers so Treville steeled himself for another brush-off by his King.

"Try to speak to Her Majesty," Athos advised in a whisper, "and whilst you cause that distraction, I will pass the note to Constance." As the royal couple approached, he had already spotted the Queen's companion following a few steps behind.

Treville nodded his understanding and prepared to intercept the group.

"Your Majesties," he began, bowing low and blocking their progress. "I wonder if I might …" but he got no further. A pair of crossed rapiers halted his advance and hands grasped roughly at his upper arms so that he struggled to shrug them off.

"Wonder no more, Treville," Rochefort instructed as he moved round from behind the King to stand slightly in front, as if shielding Louis from a physical threat. The move did not go unnoticed by Treville and he inwardly seethed at the affront. "You are in no position to address His Majesty uninvited. This is out of order."

The demoted musketeer turned hurt eyes upon the Queen in an attempt to gain her support and saw that her beautiful features were marred by an overwhelming sadness.

"Monsieur Treville," she began softly. The obvious absence of his previous title on her lips was a painful reminder to them both of what had transpired.

The only benefit was that Athos took advantage of the hold-up to approach Constance. Using his body to shield his actions from the royal couple, Rochefort and Red Guards, he took her hand and lightly brushed the back of it with his lips whilst advantageously pushing the tightly folded note into her palm.

"Constance, I beg you to pass this note to Her Majesty when you are alone," he whispered. Straightening up, he looked her in the eye and said more loudly. "Madame Bonacieux, it is too long since I have seen you; I trust you are well?"

Without hesitation, Constance dipped in courteous acknowledgement of his well wishes. "I thank you, Monsieur Athos, for your concern. I am quite well and hope the same can be said of your immediate colleagues."

She meant, of course, d'Artagnan but Rochefort heard her words and snorted derisively. "Hardly, Madame. Have you not heard the news? The musketeers are carelessly getting themselves killed these days. It is ridiculous to think of them attempting to safeguard the person of His Majesty when they clearly can't look after their own. Some fighting force they are turning out to be!"

Athos bristled but the alarm in Constance's eyes and the slight shake of her head indicated that she wanted him to desist from reacting. For her sake and that of the Queen, he held his tongue and hoped that Treville would do likewise. He did.

"Come, my dear," Louis' eyes and voice were cold as he pointedly took the Queen's arm and urged her to move onwards. It was evident that he did not want to be drawn into a discussion on anything and was certainly not going to entertain any comment from either of the musketeers. "Rochefort, I thought I had made it abundantly clear that I was not receiving any more petitions this afternoon. I have listened to tedious pleas all day and my head hurts as a result." All the time, the monarch blatantly refused to look in Treville's direction even though the man was standing three feet away from him at most.

"Then Your Majesty should retire immediately and rest before dinner. I give you my word that there will not be any further unwelcome interruptions and I apologise that your way has been plagued by inconsiderate individuals." Rochefort was at his sycophantic best.

"I will not be referred to as an inconsiderate individual," Treville ground out from between clenched teeth, "and I am so sorry that our desire to inform His Majesty of the deaths of four of his loyal musketeers is deemed _inconsiderate_ by you, Rochefort. I am sure that the victims would find the situation even more inconsiderate to them were they able to do so," Treville's voice was cutting, his eyes narrowed in fury.

Rochefort bristled. "It is, naturally, unfortunate that you have lost men but as I have already told you, I have informed His Majesty of events. I am at a loss as to what you hope to achieve by your persistent loitering in the palace corridors."

Treville closed the distance between himself and the blond-haired man whose hand went defensively to his rapier as if perceiving the other man's move as a threat. "I am _loitering,_ as you put it, to give His Majesty a report on all the relevant particulars we have at this moment. I do not recall you being present at any of the discussions I have had thus far with my musketeers who are investigating the deaths so I suspect - quite rightly - that you are not privy to all the evidence or the current state of morale within the King's regiment. That is for his ears alone and I will remain here until such a time as I am permitted to speak with His Majesty."

"Sire," Athos said quietly as he dared to address the monarch unbidden. "Any attack on the King's Musketeers must be seen as an indirect attack on your good self and it is incumbent upon us to ensure that Your Majesty should be kept up to date with all facets of that investigation," Athos added quietly.

At that, Louis clenched his fists and squeezed his eyes tightly shut, the petulant child within the monarch's character on the verge of erupting. "Enough!" he exclaimed and the three men bowed low, muttering abject apologies. He waved them away with a sweeping gesture. "My head hurts too much; I refuse to consider any more today," and he strode away down the corridor, calling Anne to follow in his wake.

"I am so sorry," she whispered as she passed by Treville. He managed to afford her a small smile and bowed again, maintaining the position until she had gone past him.

Constance looked at Athos, her hand gently and briefly pressing his forearm. "Don't worry; I promise that I will give her the note. Now please excuse me; I must attend upon Her Majesty."

Athos acknowledged her promise with a slight dip of his head. He and Treville watched as the royal party disappeared from sight at the end of the corridor.

"He will not see you," Rochefort said smugly, drawing their attention back to him. "I will not have you bothering His Majesty anymore!"

"Oh I have no doubt that you will be going out of your way to keep the King from granting me an audience but know this, Rochefort, my working relationship with His Majesty goes back a lot further than yours. You may have turned him against me at present but that will not persist. He will see me in due course and, until that time, I shall remain here." With that, Treville settled himself as comfortably as he could upon one of the wooden chairs and folded his arms. Without a word, Athos lowered himself onto the next seat and adopted a similar pose, both men intransigent in their aim.

Lacking a suitable rejoinder, Rochefort eyed the two of them with utter disdain and, beckoning to his guards, stormed off in the direction of the royal family's private rooms.

Treville gave a huge sigh and said morosely, "I fear that I am being a fool and that Louis will continue refusing to see me on principle."

"You are definitely no fool," Athos reassured him. "Plan A has failed but we have set plan B in motion with Constance and the Queen so now I believe it is time for plan C." He stood up.

"Plan C?" Treville asked, looking up at him but the younger man was staring intently towards the end of the corridor where an elegant and familiar figure had paused to watch him carefully. "Athos," he began in warning as he realised who stood there in the dim light and he was worried as the other musketeer took off after the woman. He sank back into his seat " _Mon Dieu,_ take care, boy. Do not get yourself into deeper trouble with her. She has had opportunity to damage you too much already."

As Athos moved in her direction, Milady de Winter broke into a brisk walk and hurried down the corridor but booted steps on the marble floor alerted her to the fact that her husband was in pursuit and gaining on her. Turning into another corridor that led to the rooms she had been assigned, a hand closing around her upper arm brought her to an abrupt halt with a firm grip and turned her to face him.

"You are hurting me," she said, knowing that he was doing anything but that.

"Apologies, Milady," he said coolly, not releasing her, "but I need to talk with you."

"I thought we had exhausted all conversation months ago when you demanded that I leave Paris," she scoffed, trying to ignore the burning feel of his touch through the claret-coloured silk that enfolded her arm.

"Do not flatter yourself. I am not here to exchange pleasantries." He attempted to feign an air of aloofness but instead there was an angst-ridden bitterness that edged his voice.

"Indeed," she tilted her head to look up at him, her green eyes boring into his, her lashes fluttering and a slight, teasing smile playing at the corner of her mouth. His heart missed a beat as he tried to ignore the flirtatious behaviour that he knew so well and that had been his complete undoing in the past. "That must mean that you want something from me, husband. Now, I wonder what that might be. Do you want me to guess?"

He let his hand fall. "I will not play games with you, Ann. At present, I take it that you have the ear of the King." It was strange for him to appear to acknowledge aloud her affair with the monarch.

She gave a light, lilting laugh. "Oh I have more than the ear of the King, I assure you," she taunted and immediately regretted her indecorous remark as the flat of his hand slammed into the wall by her left ear in an eruption of anger.

Breathing hard, he turned from her, walked a couple of paces, ran a hand through his unruly hair as he struggled to compose himself and revolved to face her again, all evidence of his recent outburst curtailed. There was more at stake here than rising to her jibes.

"I would ask you to speak to the King on our behalf …," and he hesitated before adding, "please. Treville and I must talk to him about what is happening to the regiment – his regiment – and give him correct information rather than let Rochefort spin his version."

"So now you need my help, you come begging to me to act as an intermediary for you …" she began, her features hardening.

"I was not aware that I have done any begging; I simply made a request."

She gave him a scathing look at his pedantic riposte. "It is all the same; you are using me for your own ends. You desperately want to speak to Louis and you expect me to arrange it for you."

He rolled his eyes in exasperation, her reference to the King by name not lost on him. "It is not for me, Ann. It is for the regiment, for Treville; men are being murdered in cold blood. We need to have discourse with the King. The men need to know that he has sympathy and concern for their plight; morale is at an all-time low and the men would have the support of their commander."

"And what do your men and the great Treville mean to me?" She waited momentarily as if expecting a response from him but when he stayed silent, she sighed. "Of course your request would be on behalf of your dear brothers." Her tone was mocking. "Sometimes I think they mean more to you than I ever did."

"God's blood, Ann, that is unfair and, dare I say it, unworthy even of you!"

There was a catch in his voice, a note almost of desperation that was not so before and she could not be sure but she thought a sudden mistiness clouded his eyes. For the first time, she realised how tired he looked.

"Do you know what I spent last night doing?"

She shook her head and he continued to explain, all fight gone from his tone.

"Over thirty of us were fighting a fire at the house of one of our comrades and then trying to stop it from spreading and destroying the whole street. It was too late for the musketeer, his wife and two children. Two small, beautiful children who were totally innocent and so full of life."

He slumped against a wall, refusing to look at her any more as he was lost in his recollection of the horrific events of the previous night.

"As it grew light, several of us started to sift through the debris of the house. We were given to understand that the family had been inside but we had to be sure. Porthos and I moved a burnt beam that had obviously fallen when the floor above collapsed. Beneath it we found the charred remains of all four of them huddled together."

His voice trailed off and as she watched him struggle to maintain control, she found that she was embroiled in an unexpected and unfamiliar emotional battle of her own. Ann could not recall ever having seen him so vulnerable and it was an interesting revelation. She had only ever witnessed him shed a few tears on one occasion and that was with sheer happiness in the heady and passionate days of their short-lived marriage. He had not even wept in front of her when she had stabbed his brother and he had sentenced her to death but, instead, she watched him close down emotionally, building an impenetrable wall around himself and totally immovable in his decision.

His lapse was brief and he suddenly pushed himself away from the wall, his back stiffening and his face expressionless as he turned to her. If he felt any resultant embarrassment at his apparent weakness, he hid it well as he adopted a cold, aloof demeanour.

"I am sorry to have disturbed you, Milady. Be assured that it will not happen again." His head dipped in a gesture of farewell and he made to leave but her hand caught his by the fingers and stopped him. He glanced down at the soft-skinned hand that held his and she wondered if he would pull free. He didn't. Instead, his eyes searched hers as he waited for her to speak.

She would never be able to put into words what exactly made up her mind but there was no hesitation when she eventually broke her silence.

"I will do my best. I cannot promise that I have any sway over Louis but I will speak on your behalf and try to get you an audience with the King."

His fingers squeezed hers in gratitude and his voice was husky when he responded. "Thank you. Even if he still refuses to see us, I will not forget that you tried."


	7. Chapter 7

**_A/N Thank you for all the feedback. I'm pleased that so many of you are liking the development of the Athos/Treville working relationship/friendship. I had written a lot about it in 'Renegade' and whilst this story was never intended to be a hard and fast 'sequel', I felt that it was something I couldn't let disappear. Also, in this stage of S2 there is more of a hint of their mutual respect and friendship emerging (especially in E6 which is after this story.)_**

 _ **The men are still at the palace for a large part of this chapter as they wait to find out if any of Athos' plans have worked but I feel I need to perhaps add a warning (for those who might be a little sensitive) for the last part of this and the next chapter because of another event that unfolds.** _

CHAPTER 7

Lamplight flickered in the long corridor, casting eerie shadows of the men on the wall behind them whenever they shifted position. Disgruntled, exhausted and hungry, conversation had died out some time after Athos had returned from the encounter with his estranged wife and recounted what had transpired between them. Treville had, for a while, watched the younger man surreptitiously, wondering about the finer points of the meeting but Athos appeared to be no more than a little sombre and that could be attributed to lack of sleep. He had tried once more to get him to leave and head back to the garrison but Athos had resisted all his attempts.

If truth be told, neither of them was relishing the prospect of a night spent in the cold corridor but, equally, neither of them was going to admit it. The monotony of the stance they had taken was suddenly alleviated by quick but light footsteps and both looked up in surprise as d'Artagnan trotted round the corner in their direction and set down a covered basket on the ground in front of them, his face split into a relieved grin of greeting. He squatted before them and started unpacking the basket, revealing a bottle of wine, a loaf of bread and various cuts of meat and cheeses.

"What are you doing here?" Athos asked, accepting a hunk of bread from the new arrival. He tore it apart and laid a thick slice of meat between the two pieces before taking a mouthful, not having noticed until this moment just how hungry he was.

"When you didn't return by late afternoon, we thought you might well have stayed here but Constance sent a message to the garrison confirming that you had decided not to come back until you had spoken with the King. Serge was worried for he knew both of you hadn't had anything to eat since last night so he packed this up and I volunteered to bring it," d'Artagnan explained.

Athos frowned. "You came here on your own, knowing that solitary musketeers are being picked off? That was an unnecessary risk just to bring us food," he chastised.

D'Artagnan changed his position to sit on the floor, his back against the opposite wall. He shook his head. "I came with the change of guard so there was no potential danger."

"But what about getting back?" Athos persisted. He did not think it advisable for a third musketeer to take up temporary residence in the corridor.

D'Artagnan shrugged. "I am armed and on horseback. I shall ride quickly and be back at the garrison in no time."

Treville gave a low chuckle. "The arrogance of youth," he quipped.

"Remove anything that identifies you or your horse as being of the musketeer regiment before you leave," Athos insisted, the food forgotten for the time being.

D'Artagnan bristled, "I am not ashamed of being a musketeer."

"No one is suggesting that you are but I concur with Athos," Treville intervened in an attempt to placate him. "Make sure you have removed your pauldron and the blue saddle blanket and try not to make your weapons so obvious. If it is not too cold, it might help if you removed your doublet." D'Artagnan made to object but Treville raised a hand to silence him. "When we do get an audience with the King, we will be discussing a number of strategies to safeguard musketeers. Look upon this as being an early tactic. I know it takes you out of appropriate uniform whilst on duty but if it means that it does not draw attention to you on the return to the garrison, then so be it. The hours ahead of us during the night will be long enough as it is without awaiting verification that you have made the short journey safely. Now do you understand?"

D'Artagnan contemplated the argument and then nodded his agreement.

"It is considerate that you have brought us food but I agree with Athos that it was an unnecessary risk," Treville continued.

"That is not the only reason why I came," d'Artagnan continued, drawing up his knees and hugging them to his body. "There have been developments." He waited whilst the wine bottle passed between the two older musketeers and watched as Treville raised it to his lips.

Athos gestured towards him with a half-eaten chunk of cheese, "Then tell us."

"Aramis spent the morning preparing the Thibaut family for burial and made a discovery which might be a good thing in the end."

"How so?" Treville's interest was piqued. He was unsure as to what could be good in the tragedy that had hit the young family.

D'Artagnan waited before delivering his astounding news. "They did not die in the fire." He watched as Treville and Athos traded curious glances. "They were already dead – each of them had received a fatal shot. Aramis found the balls in the burnt bodies."

Athos let out the breath that he had been holding and sat back in his chair. "It is a strange kind of comfort. I could not get the idea out of my head of the terror they must have endured in their final moments, especially the children. If they were already dead when the fire was set, there is some relief in that knowledge but it still brings us no closer to the identity of those responsible."

"Everyone's wracking their brains at the garrison but there doesn't seem to be any link between the men other than the fact that they were all musketeers," d'Artagnan picked up his tale again. "Different marital status, with or without other relatives in Paris, different friendship groupings. They're even different ages."

"There has to be something that links them, something that would possibly help us thwart future attacks but I can't see it," Treville complained.

Athos had fallen silent, his mind racing. Snapping his fingers, he leaned forward eagerly. "d'Artagnan, you might have something there."

"I might?" d'Artagnan queried. He cleared his throat and although he could not quite see why, declared proudly, "I might!"

"Age might not link them but it could be something to do with how long each of them has been a musketeer. When did each of them join the regiment?" Athos asked Treville. "Can you remember?"

The older man thought carefully before framing his response. "Martin Moreau was one of the original musketeers and had served with me before."

"So he joined in 1622," Athos specified.

Treville nodded. "Paul Armand Sebastien was recruited the following year and Henri-Albert Benin got his commission in twenty-six."

Athos noticed that Treville had given two of the men their full names as if he were reciting details from regimental documents; it never failed to amaze him just how closely the officer knew his men even if the older man believed otherwise.

"Benin was before me and Thibaut after," Athos added. "Early twenty-seven?"

"That's right," Treville acknowledged, "so all four were spread out. They definitely were not part of the same recruitment."

"What about where they came from?" Athos was beginning to think they were getting closer to a uniting factor between the four victims but he just could not pinpoint that link and he was about to be disappointed again.

"They hailed from completely different areas. Sebastien was from Paris, Thibaut from Rouen. Benin was another Gascon and Moreau was a Breton."

Athos sighed heavily and tried to remain positive. With each question answered, he was ruling out possibilities and should, therefore, be approaching the answer, if he could but see it. "Had any of them served with each other before?"

Treville shook his head. "No, only Moreau with me as I said."

"Did you ever send them on missions together?" Athos asked next.

"Never as a complete unit. I might have tried different combinations depending upon the task but I do not recall any instance where I sent the four of them out jointly."

The two men fell silent, lost in their own thoughts.

"There is one other thing," d'Artagnan began, knowing that he had more bad news to impart but wondering how to proceed. The others picked up on the tone in his voice and gave him their undivided attention. "The supply cart was stolen whilst en route to the garrison this morning,"

Treville groaned. "Whatever next?"

"The carter was badly beaten up. They made a mistake when they left him for dead. When he was found, he asked to be brought to the garrison so that he could report what had happened. He can't be too sure but there were at least three, possibly four men and they knew what they were doing. They were armed, masked and the attack was swift and brutal. He can't give too detailed a description of them but it looks like they made their first mistake leaving him alive to tell his tale."

Athos disagreed. "It was no mistake. I do not believe that they had any intention of killing him as he was not a musketeer. They had what they wanted – supplies bound for the garrison; anything that would create problems for the regiment, hit morale even further. Serge is dependent upon that delivery. Until a fresh order can be signed for …"

"And paid for," Treville interrupted. "One of the things I desperately need to see Louis about is money. I have continued to pay for supplies and the men's wages but funds at the garrison are now perilously low. Louis' displeasure goes deeper than refusing to see me. The coffers are closed. He is currently punishing the regiment and me any way he can."

"And paid for," Athos repeated solemnly. "Serge is perilously close to running out of basic supplies. He will have to start rationing the men unless His Majesty can be made to see sense."

"And that will only happen if I can get to see him without Rochefort breathing over my shoulder," Treville said grimly.

"And for that we need plan B or C to work," Athos said wryly.

D'Artagnan looked at him quizzically, not understanding the reference but before he could ask, a petite figure emerged at the turn of the corridor, bringing all three men to their feet. D'Artagnan felt the familiar stab of regret and longing as Constance came towards them, a nervous smile playing on her lips when she saw that he was with them.

It was Athos who went to her first and took her hand in his. "Constance, please tell me that you have some good news for us; we are sorely in need of it."

She waited as the other two moved to flank him. "I think you will be pleased, although it has left the King in a terrible temper. It seems, Athos, that you were not content with leaving it to the Queen and me but prevailed upon _her_ to help out as well."

It was not lost upon Athos that even Constance would not refer to his wife by name but then, Ann had taken her hostage and threatened her life, so he did not expect her to think upon his wife with any fondness. "Ann petitioned the King on our behalf as well?" There was a note of doubt in his voice, as if he had hardly dared hope that she would do anything he asked just because the request came from him.

"Apparently so," Constance explained. "His Majesty was in high dudgeon about women not leaving him alone and how he really did not want to hear the names of Athos, Treville or any of the musketeers in the same breath. Eventually, he reluctantly agreed that he would grant you an audience at ten tomorrow morning, if only to give him some peace."

"He won't change his mind?" Athos asked.

"I don't think so. Her Majesty, whilst a little disappointed to realise that she was not your only line of attack, insisted that you be told immediately and informed the King that it would not look good for him to go back on his word when she and her ladies-in-waiting were witnesses to the agreement. He was still complaining loudly when she bade me come to you. He dared to ask her if she and …," she hesitated, wondering how best to refer to the King's mistress, "Milady had been plotting between them."

Athos winced, "And how did she reply to that?"

"Oh very clearly, I can assure you. The King was left in no doubt as to the ridiculousness of his supposition but she did add that perhaps there had to be something in the fact that both of them agreed that he should grant you an audience. She did remind him that, when all was said and done, the regiment was his and he had a duty towards it, whether he liked its senior officers or not."

"A wise woman," Treville breathed appreciatively. It was not lost on his musketeers the depth of protective fondness he had for the young Queen.

Constance laid a hand gently on Treville's arm. "She then instructed me to tell you to give up this vigil and to return to the garrison. You will see the King tomorrow and for now, she beseeches you to go and get some proper rest for we know only too well how difficult last night was. Your men need you; be with them."

"If only they were my men," he responded.

"They will always be your men. To them, the Queen and me, you will always be our Captain." Before he could react, she stood on tiptoe and planted a chaste kiss on his whiskered cheek, smiled warmly at the three of them and left them standing there, stunned.

Treville was speechless as he raised a hand to the spot where her lips had brushed his cheek.

"If I didn't know you better, Sir, I'd think that you were blushing," Athos dared to tease. Treville harrumphed loudly and joined in packing up the basket. It was only d'Artagnan who stood gazing at the turn in the corridor where Constance had disappeared from view, his heart racing and his mouth dry at the realisation that he had not spoken to her at all. In fact, all her exchanges had been with the other two men but he could not forget that parting smile, her eyes taking in all three of them. He had not been excluded. What was there for him to take from that?

Athos touched his shoulder. "Come, d'Artagnan. We will all ride back together. Safety in numbers, or so it is said."

The three rode into the garrison yard. A couple of men and the stable boy moved forward to take the reins of their horses, relieving them of their charges. Usually a musketeer would not dream of looking to his own needs before his faithful mount had been carefully tended but word had spread as to what had detained Athos and Treville at the palace and given all that was happening to the regiment at present, the soldiers wanted to demonstrate unanimity and support in any way. Feeding, watering and grooming the horses was one such opportunity and d'Artagnan nodded his quiet thanks that he had been included.

As they entered the mess hall, the atmosphere was subdued, talk low and minimal. All eyes turned on them as they stood framed in the doorway and searching the room for Porthos and Aramis. Spying them, Athos and d'Artagnan moved through the room to where they sat at a corner table whilst Treville delivered the news that those gathered wanted to hear.

"The King will see me tomorrow." There was a collective sigh of relief from the men as he, too, moved to the table where the _Inseparables_ had settled.

"It has been a long, hard day," Porthos summarised softly. He watched as Serge came over and, unbidden, placed brimming bowls of hot stew before the newcomers. The basket's contents had been a makeshift meal and much remained untouched, interrupted as the men had been by contemplation and then Constance's arrival.

"For all," Athos agreed, eyeing Aramis who sat quietly, eyes circled with dark rings of exhaustion. "Have you had any rest?"

Aramis swallowed a mouthful of wine and nodded. "Some, once I had made arrangements for the Thibaut funeral."

"D'Artagnan told us of your findings," Treville said.

"At least it gives us some comfort that they were not killed in the fire," Aramis responded.

"That's what we said. All we can do is hope that they were surprised and the end was quick for all of them," Athos added.

"Four bullets with the length of time it takes to reload a pistol?" Aramis sounded bitter. "Thibaut would have been the most serious danger so it would be feasible to shoot him first; the children and their mother would have been witnesses to that bloody deed."

"He has been struggling with the deaths of the children all day," Porthos explained as he eyed his friend worriedly. "'E tried to get some sleep but it was disturbed by dark thoughts." They all knew it was nothing short of a euphemism for nightmares.

It was Athos who took the rational line. "For them to have the upper hand over Thibaut, the attack had to be swift. All it would need is two men armed with a brace of pistols. We know now from the attack upon the supply cart this morning that three or four men are involved at the very least. I have to believe that it was speedy." Green eyes bored into Aramis. "It serves no purpose to think otherwise."

The five ate, drank and talked through the rest of the evening, mulling over yet again the points they already knew and contributing speculative theories but there was no relief to be gained from continued revisiting of events. They were worn down; lack of sleep the previous night not enough in itself to do the damage. They were experienced soldiers and knew how to survive for a while with minimal rest but the emotional drain was what really took its toll; not knowing who was attacking them or why gave them no starting point in resolving the situation.

Eventually, when weary minds could focus no more, they all retired. Many of the men in the mess hall did likewise and an uneasy silence descended upon the garrison well before the bell of a nearby church intoned the hour of eleven.

Duprés and Hubert were the two musketeers on duty at the main gate that night. The start of their watch had them apprehensively discussing all that had transpired but they were no more capable of promoting any feasible answer than any of their colleagues. Eventually they fell silent, senses honed and on the alert for any problems. So anxious were they that they visibly jumped when a screech broke the night on the other side of the street and a cat ran out from behind some empty wooden boxes discarded by a market trader in the late afternoon. They both laughed aloud nervously at having been terrified by a cat until it struck Hubert that something had to have disturbed the feline in the first place. Even as the thought crossed his mind, there was another movement in the shadows by the boxes.

Neither musketeer had the time to react or raise an alarm.

The first crossbow bolt found its deadly mark in Hubert's throat, killing him instantly. Before his body sank to the ground, a second bolt, fired from a position several feet beyond the initial one, hit Duprés squarely in the chest.

As one, four dark-clad individuals rose from their respective hiding places in the empty street and ran towards the vulnerable garrison entrance, pausing only to grab the arms of the dead musketeers and drag their bodies into the blackness of the archway. They halted, flattening themselves against the brickwork as the door to the mess hall opened and Serge appeared, throwing a basin of dirty water onto the ground below the stairs before turning and going back inside.

The assailants emerged from the archway and circumnavigated the yard in the shadows as they headed to the stables, carrying their victims between them. Horses whinnied in agitation at the intrusion, enough to awaken Georges, the fifteen-year old stable boy who bedded down in a corner by some of his charges. He barely had time to scramble to his feet when a figure loomed over him. His mouth formed a silent 'o' and his eyes widened, hands scrabbling at the intense pain that erupted in his stomach and coming away again wet and sticky with what he instinctively knew was his life blood. A shocked tear trickled down his cheek as he dropped to his knees and stayed there, oblivious to the movement around him of the masked men who had encroached upon his innocent world. He was the orphan boy who had been taken in by the musketeers, given gainful employment, a roof over his head, three meals a day, companionship and a purpose for waking up in the morning. By the time he pitched forward into the straw and breathed his last, the two dead musketeers had been thrown on either side of him and the mysterious attackers had gone.

With the stable door left slightly ajar, a cold breeze caught and moved it, the resultant air current fanning the flickering flames that curled through the straw and licked hungrily at the corner of the wooden wall.


	8. Chapter 8

**_A/N Goodness, feelings are running high regarding certain characters at present! Thanks for the feedback and, at the risk of sounding repetitive, I do greatly appreciate it and always enjoy your comments. Most of you I PM separately but, Doubtful Guest, thank you for your encouragement. I'm pleased that you consider the characters and story are remaining within canon; I do try to do that._**

 ** _The fire has taken hold so I do reiterate the warning of yesterday and hope that I do not upset too many of you by description and events within this chapter!_**

 ** _That symbol makes its presence felt - again! Will any of them ever recall its significance?_**

CHAPTER 8

Although not drunk, Aramis had consumed sufficient wine during the evening in the vain hope that the alcohol would relax him enough to still his turbulent thoughts following the murder of the Thibaut family. He was one of the first to retire, apologising for his belief that he was not good company that evening. Stripped to his braies, he sank into bed and pulled the blanket up to his chin before blowing out the single candle that had afforded him minimal light. Lying there in the darkness, he listened to the footfalls and muted voices of other musketeers returning to their quarters; a pall of gloom had descended upon the soldiers and no-one was anxious to sit up and talk about the pervading threat to the regiment.

Sleep claimed him quickly but it was restless and inevitable that the nightmares would return. Nearby church bells tolled midnight and he was back fighting the fire in the Rue de Jour. Left arm raised to shield his face from the intense heat, he joined in passing buckets of water along a chain of musketeers until the person closest threw it at the flames. Frequently they changed position as the heat rapidly became unbearable. Other lines of people were soaking walls and rooves of nearby buildings in a vain attempt to prevent the spread of the fire.

Women and some of the older children adopted the role of watching the flying embers to see where they settled and, where possible, they extinguished them as soon as they landed, either with water or by beating them with shovels or water-soaked cloths. Where the embers settled beyond their reach, they called for help, watching the glow to see if it expanded into a small yet dangerous flame.

The blaze intensified; the reds, yellows and oranges of the dancing fire were fascinating and held him spellbound. The crackle of the flames increased in volume, sporadically erupting into an angry roar as part of the roof or a wall collapsed in on itself, sending a frightening cloud of embers soaring skyward. The sound of men's voices shouting desperate instructions to each other rose above the sound of the fire and he lay tangled in his bedding as the suffocating, cloying smell of the smoke permeated his skin, hair and clothing and left him gasping.

He tossed in his sleep, a low moan in his throat as he vividly relived the time he had spent scrubbing his skin raw once he had examined the charred remains of the family members. Nothing would ever erase from his memory the sight of the small forms of the children, limbs contracted into cruel, claw-like gestures, mouths open in a grotesquely silent scream. Even in the dream, a voice in his head repeated over and over again that they were mercifully dead before the fire took hold.

As he stood gazing down on the corpse of the little girl, her eyes flew open, the whites in stark contrast to the charcoal skin as she stared at him in an accusatory manner. He had failed to save her. Blackened lips peeled back and an unholy snarl erupted from her constricted throat.

Coming awake with a cry, Aramis sat bolt upright in his bed, breathing hard as the sweat cooled upon his skin. He fought to regain control, doubting whether or not he had come fully awake as he saw the quivering orange light moving in a patch on his wall. The dream had been so real, he could still hear the crackle of the fire and men's voices calling instructions but what was worse was the smell of burning.

The sudden realisation hit him that there was trouble within the garrison and he scrambled across his bed to the window and looked out upon a scene of chaos that stirred within him thoughts of Dante's 'Inferno'. The stables were alight and, as many musketeers repeated their fire-fighting techniques of the previous night, others tried to lead crazed, unco-operative horses to safety whilst the terrified screams of animals still caught within the burning building rent the air.

Scrabbling to pull on his breeches and boots, Aramis hopped to the door and let himself out into the busy night. Pushing through the body of men each intent upon their own assigned task, he headed towards familiar figures at the horse trough just as Athos soaked a length of material in cold water and began to wrap the dripping fabric over his head and around his face, wet hair indicating that this was not the first time he had done this. Treville was doing the same.

As they headed towards the burning building, Porthos moved to intercept them, breathing hard from his exertions at the front line of the battle against the fire.

"That roof is goin' to go any time. Don't be thinkin' of goin' back in there, it's too dangerous," he insisted.

"There are two more horses to get out and no-one has seen Georges yet. The boy must still be in there," Athos explained, soaking a second cloth to drape over the eyes of a petrified animal to lead it out and taking deep breaths before throwing himself through the now smouldering doorway with Treville close on his heels.

"Get that water on the roof there," Porthos yelled at the men around him and they redoubled their efforts.

"They're mad!" Aramis gasped, reaching Porthos' side. "Why didn't you stop them?"

Porthos cast a withering look in Aramis' direction. "Don't you think I tried? In case you've forgotten, it's darned hard to stop Athos doin' somethin' once he sets his mind to it."

The two grabbed buckets and dipped them into the trough, acknowledging the musketeer at the end of another line of soldiers busy feeding containers of water from the garrison well to refill the stone trough. Turning in unison, they headed to a wooden support beam where flames began to lick at its base. Looking at each other, Aramis nodded and together they doused the beam. The flame sizzled and died, greyish steam curling upwards.

"Where's d'Artgnan?" Aramis asked, refilling his bucket.

"Leading a team round the other side of the building," Porthos said between coughing.

An ear-splitting crack rent the air and men yelled tense warnings as they withdrew from their positions near the burning stable. Even as they watched, a corner section of roof crashed inwards sending flames and sparks soaring up into the night sky.

"Athos!" Aramis screamed and made to run without thinking through the smoke-filled doorway but Porthos grabbed him and cast him aside.

"I'm goin'!" Porthos declared. Aramis stood, chest heaving in a combination of terror and burgeoning grief, as Porthos soaked a cloth and headed towards the opening.

Before he had taken a couple of steps, a demented stallion shot through the doorway and he threw himself backwards to avoid being trampled. The animal charged through the melée of musketeers and galloped out of control around the yard, endangering all who were there and hampering their work as it reared up, front hooves flailing in panic.

As men struggled to calm the creature, Aramis hurriedly bent and helped Porthos to his feet. Even as he did so, two figures emerged from the same smoke-filled doorway. One staggered under the weight of the other, holding up the man and dragging him to safety.

Aramis and Porthos leaped forward as Athos dropped Treville to the ground and collapsed beside him on hands and knees, harsh coughing wracking his slender frame in his struggles for breath. His shirt was smouldering and, without ceremony, Porthos tore a bucket from the hands of another soldier and dumped its contents over Athos' upper body as Aramis crouched beside Treville's still form.

"Easy," Porthos ordered, holding Athos at the shoulder in one hand as he rubbed his back with the other whilst the man wheezed horrendously, coughed and spat sooty phlegm into the dirt. "Slow down, steady breaths now." A tap on his own shoulder distracted him and he looked up to see Dufort holding out a cup of water. Nodding his thanks, he eased Athos up and onto his knees and held the cup to his lips. "Sip it," he ordered.

Athos tried but the cold of the liquid and his erratic breathing left him doubled over in another paroxysm of coughing. Porthos laid a steadying hand on his back again before looking across to where Aramis dabbed at the blood trickling down the right side of Treville's face.

"How is he?" Porthos asked anxiously.

"He's unconscious. He's been struck on the head by something but the wound isn't deep. There are superficial burns on his left hand too." Aramis rocked back on his heels. "He's lucky," he said grimly, trying to ignore the chillingly relentless screams of the last trapped horse that reached them above all the noise in the yard.

"They both are," Porthos added.

The remainder of the roof caved in, the resultant din of collapsing timbers and the roar of triumphant flames mercifully cutting short the sound of the doomed animal within.

On Aramis' order, Treville was carried by two men into the mess hall and laid on a table whilst Serge lit more lamps and had a range of medical supplies set out in readiness. He held out a bowl of water and a cloth to Aramis, watching as the younger man cleansed the head injury and inspected it more closely. They both looked up briefly as Porthos entered, supporting Athos over to a bench, lowering him to sit on it and urging him to keep sipping from the cup which the breathless man now gripped tightly in his hand.

"Are you hurt anywhere?" Porthos asked as his eyes worriedly searched his friend for any visible sign of injury and not finding anything. Athos shook his head. "You sure?"

"Sure," Athos confirmed, his voice nothing more than a harsh rasp. "Treville?" His truncated breathy question was all that he could manage.

"He'll be fine," Aramis called across to him. "He's coming round now."

As if to prove the point, rough coughing ensued and Treville struggled to roll onto his side, pushing himself up as he fought to clear congested lungs. Aramis helped him as Serge held out another cup of water.

"I'll live," he automatically ground out by way of confirmation and before any of them had the chance to ask him how he felt. The anxious men gave a relieved laugh.

…

In the cold light of day, the musketeers gathered in grim silence and surveyed the damage, watching as Athos, Aramis and Porthos picked their way carefully through the blackened debris.

They had already skirted the body of the horse but it was Porthos who had clambered over fallen beams, a hand on the charred wood to steady himself as he studied something he had found. He called to his brothers and they scrambled over to him, their eyes immediately going to where he pointed. In silence, they picked at the burned wreckage, throwing pieces of barely recognisable wood to one side until they stopped, breathing hard at the sudden burst of activity as they looked down upon the grim discovery.

"Three of 'em," Porthos grunted.

Athos looked around him at the waiting musketeers, wondering what the latest revelation would do to them. When he spoke, his voice was deliberately low and not solely because of the remnants of the smoke inhalation from a few hours earlier.

"The duty guard – Duprés and Hubert. The third one has to be the stable boy, given his size."

Aramis suddenly crouched and poked at one of the charred bodies. "Look at this," he ordered and laid the piece of melted metal into Athos' outstretched palm.

"What is it?" Porthos asked,

Athos held it up as he examined it closely, "It's what's left of a crossbow bolt. Is there another?" He and Porthos watched patiently as Aramis turned his attention to the other adult corpse. His sudden hesitation was answer enough but still they waited.

"Yes. It's in the throat."

Athos closed his eyes momentarily. "That explains how whoever it is got in to set the fire."

"Had to be at least two of 'em," Porthos said as he thought through events of the previous evening. "Takes time to load a crossbow, time enough for one of the watch to raise an alarm for he would've seen his partner fall. It wouldn't 'ave saved 'im though."

"At least two," Athos concurred. "It would have taken even more time to move the bodies to the stable. Hubert was nearly as big as you, Porthos. One man working alone would have been hard pressed to shift him. The risk of being discovered whilst in the process would have been too high. No, I think four would have been more likely."

"Another strike by our mysterious four?" Porthos was thinking about what they already knew of the attackers.

"I hope it's the same quartet. If there are more of them than that, I dread to think what lies ahead of us until we apprehend them," Athos said bleakly. "There is no doubt that they are stepping up their assaults and the death toll keeps rising."

"Athos!" d'Artagnan's voice rang out across the yard. Having gained the man's attention, the young musketeer beckoned him to join him. "You'd better see this."

Summoned, Athos climbed over the stable debris and down onto firm ground, aware that Porthos and Aramis followed. Striding briskly across the yard, he halted beside d'Artagnan who indicated a wall of the archway.

There it was again; the symbol that haunted every one of his waking moments. This time it was written large, daubed patchily on the brickwork in something black. He stared at it; the shape was so familiar now and he tried to determine whether or not it was because he had seen it so frequently of late or if it was the re-emergence of a long-buried memory. He shut his eyes and tried to concentrate.

A hand touched his shoulder. "Athos, are you alright?" He opened his eyes and d'Artagnan was watching him, his concern etched deep.

"I'm thinking. I have to remember where I've seen this before; it's the key to everything." He seized the younger man by the shoulders. "Are you absolutely sure that you had never seen it before the first murder?"

D'Artagnan shook his head. "I've never seen it; it means nothing to me."

So he could definitely discount the year or so since d'Artagnan had joined them and, in his head, went over conversations he had been party to in recent days. Something that the young musketeer had said in all innocence the previous evening bothered him for he felt there had to be some relevance. D'Artagnan had commented upon the difference in the ages of the dead men and that was what he and Treville had focused upon – the difference – when perhaps they should have thought about the commonality of those ages and when they became musketeers. Athos felt a cold sweat break out as a pattern began to emerge. Not one of the four was below thirty years of age, some being significantly older. Thibaut, the youngest, was the last to have gained his commission in early 1627. His thoughts turned to the two latest victims and his breath caught as he realised something else. Both Duprés and Hubert, easily over thirty, were already musketeers when he had succeeded in gaining his own commission. All the murdered men had been musketeers by the spring of 1627!

Was that the missing link? Was there anything significant about that year?

Of course there was. How could anyone forget it? As soon as his thoughts focused on the year, deeper memories were stirred and he moved closer to inspect the symbol, running a finger slowly over it. As he traced the lines, he saw the original so clearly: silver-white on a blue background. He closed his eyes again and rested his forehead on the cool brickwork as he struggled to slow his racing heart.

"Athos? You're really beginning to worry me." D'Artagnan again.

Athos stood up straight and withdrew his hand, studying the dried flakes of the painted symbol that had come away and tainted his skin. The irony of it did not escape him for there was much about the events of 1627 that had tainted him back then.

"Blood," he announced tonelessly, his eyes searching the ground and seeing the tell-tale patches where the murdered musketeers had fallen, their life-blood staining the earth and the drag marks in the dust. His gaze shifted to the crowd of citizens who had gathered at the gates from first light. A few had reciprocated with assistance at the height of the fire, knowing how relentlessly the musketeers had fought alongside them to control the one in the Rue de Jour but the bulk had waited until daylight afforded them a better look. Their numbers swelled as the hours passed with folk coming and going, watching and passing comment.

Force of habit made Athos scrutinise each face but he could neither recognise anyone familiar nor trust his judgement if he had. Features merged into each other; there had been many at the alley where Moreau had been found and many more who had sweated alongside him as they battled the blaze at the Thibaut house. Any of them could have been fascinated by the next catastrophe to strike at the heart of the musketeers.

Athos walked back into the yard to where the majority of soldiers waited in silence, looking to him for instruction and without any hesitation, he slid into the leadership role.

"Dufort, you and a couple of others scrub the blood from the wall and spread sand over the stains in the ground. d'Artagnan, choose five men and take up guard duty at the front. Get the gawkers to go home and leave us alone."

"Five?" d'Artagnan queried.

"Yes, I'm tripling the guard. Porthos, take a dozen men and station them round the perimeter of the garrison. Thereafter the watch will be changed every two hours, on the hour. I'm putting you in charge of drawing up a rota." Porthos nodded at his acceptance of the role.

"Aramis," and he reached out a hand to clasp his friend's shoulder. "I am sorry but I'm leaving you with the task of removing the bodies. When that has been done, you two," and he indicated towards Guillaume and Salomon, "will lead the detail to start clearing this mess. I want us to be in a position to begin rebuilding the stables tomorrow."

There was a murmur of surprise at his speedy intent and Athos immediately explained his rationale.

"If we are being watched, as I believe we must be for our enemies to know our movements, I want to send them a clear message that we will not be cowed by their attacks. We are not called the King's Musketeers for nothing." His words initiated a somewhat muted cheer from tired and nervous men for they all feared the monarch's apparent indifference towards them at the present time.

"And you?" Aramis asked softly.

"I'm going to make a report to Treville and see if he is ready to go and see the King," Athos answered.

"Then if you don't mind, I will accompany you. I need to check on him as I think he has a mild concussion," Aramis said and the two men set off across the yard together.

When the two finally entered the office to which Treville had eventually been moved, they found him sitting on the edge of the bed placed in the corner of the room. He was as white as his shirt except for the purple-black bruising that encircled an angry looking cut to his right temple. His hand was swathed in a bandage to protect the burns he had sustained.

He raised his eyes to the two young men who halted in front of him. "Well?"

Athos gave a succinct report of what they had found amidst the debris and a brief outline of the orders he had issued. Treville nodded his approval and pushed himself up to his feet. Immediately he staggered as the room swam alarmingly. Both Aramis and Athos grabbed at him to steady him and eased him back down onto the bed.

"I need to get ready to go to the palace," he objected, albeit unconvincingly.

"You're not going anywhere," Aramis decided. "You are obviously still concussed. I doubt the King will be willing to listen sympathetically if you suddenly keel over. Besides, I want to change the dressing on those burns."

"But …" Treville began.

"No 'buts'," Athos reiterated, standing with his arms folded as he watched worriedly whilst Aramis settled Treville back against the pillows. "I will meet with the King on your behalf; he promised us an audience and he _will_ understand the seriousness of our situation." He moved towards the door.

"Don't leave the garrison alone," Treville insisted as Aramis concentrated on removing the bandage. "Take Porthos with you."

"I'll find someone," Athos responded. "I've just assigned Porthos to a task."

"Then un-assign him," Treville demanded. As Athos studied him, the older man explained. "I may not be your Captain any more but if I have any sway left with you, please do as I ask. I would be much happier if it was Porthos who accompanied you."

Athos reached the door and paused to look back at the two men who watched him in turn. "Porthos it is then." The smiles of relief from the others did not go unnoticed.

Athos left but almost immediately, his head reappeared around the door jamb. "Oh, perhaps I ought to mention that I have remembered where I've seen that symbol before. We will discuss it when I return," and he was gone.

Treville was momentarily surprised and then bellowed his name, immediately wincing at the pain it elicited in his head. He expected the man to respond and come back to explain himself and his throwaway comment. When it was clear that Athos had no intention of returning, Treville wrenched a pillow from behind him and hurled it across the room in the direction of the open door, letting rip as he did so with a stream of colourful language that made even Aramis' eyes widen in amazement.

"Why, Captain," he said smoothly, "I know Athos can be exceedingly infuriating on occasions but it's the first time I've ever heard you use such invective to describe him. I'm shocked but I shall be generous and attribute it to your head injury!"


	9. Chapter 9

_**A/N I was completely overwhelmed by your comments in the reviews for Ch. 8 and others sent by private message by this morning. Thank you so much - even that seems inadequate from me. Of course, it means that I put lots more pressure on myself each time I upload another chapter and I worry if it falls short of your (now) exacting expectations but the story continues apace. A number of you seem worried that Athos has not shared his thoughts on the symbol before heading to the palace. Now why on earth should you think that? Are you expecting something to happen? I would hate to become predictable, even if one of you knew I would send Athos into the burning stable! (I smile and chuckle as I write this!) Ch 10 is prepared but with work commitments (and still catching up with being off all last week) I am giving you advance notice that I will only be uploading Monday, Wednesday and Friday of next week but I will try my absolute hardest to make those chapters count!**_

 _ **More importantly, Ch 9 sees Porthos and Athos at that palace for that interview with the King. Will they get any help? Will Rochefort stall them again? Read on and enjoy!**_

CHAPTER 9

Porthos was happy to accompany Athos to the palace and the pair had taken meticulous care to be immaculate in their uniform and presentation. In the warmth of the morning sunlight in the yard, they had stripped to the waist for the second consecutive morning and scrubbed their bodies clean with the soap and hot water furnished by Serge. One of the last things Athos had done before finally donning a clean shirt and his doublet was to lean over the trough as Porthos sent a bucket of cold water cascading over his head and shoulders and he rubbed his hands vigorously through his hair.

Even though they had wiped at the doublets and breeches with damp cloths and oiled the leather to keep it supple, they could not disguise the smell of smoke that still clung to their outer garments. Boots were polished, feathered hats brushed and beards trimmed before they set out and they made sure that they were in the corridor outside the presence chamber ahead of the stipulated time.

Even so, Louis kept them waiting for nearly half an hour and Porthos, never known for his patience, had taken up where Treville had left off the previous evening and paced the floor, stopping frequently to glare at the closed doors ahead of him.

"They will not open any sooner because you stare threateningly at them," Athos drawled.

"'E's late," Porthos stated the obvious.

"I presume you are referring to His Majesty," Athos observed.

Porthos dropped heavily onto the seat beside him. "Of course I mean 'is Majesty. Who else would I be talkin' about?" When Athos remained silent, Porthos continued his complaint. "I don't know 'ow you and Treville managed to stay 'ere so long yesterday. I'd 'ave been climbin' the walls." Athos merely raised an eyebrow, the infuriating gesture guaranteed to exacerbate Porthos' deteriorating mood and he leaped to his feet, resuming his pacing. "'How can you sit there so calmly?"

"If it will make you feel any better, I am far from calm but rather than expending my energy in such a fruitless enterprise, I am better employed going over in my head exactly what I am going to say to the King."

Porthos sighed loudly and sank onto the seat again. Leaning forward, he let his wrists rest on his knees as he ran the brim of his hat through his fingers. "You can be so annoyin', you know that?"

The corner of Athos' mouth twitched. "So Treville would have me believe yesterday."

Before Porthos had the chance to come back with another retort, the doors opened and they were ushered into the empty chamber. Taking up their positions in front of the ornate chairs on the dais, they prepared to wait again.

"We have at least made progress upon yesterday," Athos muttered whilst Porthos made a sound akin to a grunt.

At that moment, another door opened to their right and in swept Louis, closely followed by the Queen, two of her ladies-in-waiting, Rochefort and four of his Red Guard. Those men pointedly took up places in a semi-circle behind the musketeers.

Athos and Porthos immediately bent at the waist in low, formal bows and held the pose until Louis addressed them, his voice cold and unwelcoming.

"I thought Monsieur Treville was so desperate to see me, Rochefort. He cannot be that bothered if he now sends others in his stead."

"Your Majesty could not be blamed for perceiving this as a personal insult," Rochefort was gloating.

Athos straightened up and took a step forward, "With respect, Sire, Treville had expected to be here this morning but he was injured last night." He looked pointedly at Rochefort. "I presume Your Majesty has already been informed of the arson attack on the garrison."

"I have been told about the fire. Was it serious?" Louis asked.

Athos did not think that he was imagining the note of concern beginning to creep into the King's voice and he gave a concise account of what had happened: the extent of the destruction, the murder of the two musketeers and the stable boy. He also made reference to the loss of vital straw and hay stores as well as three valuable mounts. Beside the horse that had perished in the fire itself, two others had to be shot when one was impaled on a broken wooden upright and the other shattered a foreleg in its panicked rampage.

When he finished, the King sat in a thoughtful silence but the Queen was alarmed.

"And poor Monsieur Treville? What happened? How badly is he hurt?" she asked, distress etched upon her delicate features.

"He will be moved by Your Majesty's concern," Athos said, twisting slightly to address her directly, "but I am happy to reassure you that he will make a full recovery. He has concussion and burns to one of his hands. He had entered the burning stable to search for the boy and to retrieve the last two horses when a portion of the roof collapsed and caught him a glancing blow."

"A reckless and dangerous act for a man of his age," Rochefort said dismissively. "Surely there were younger men who would have been more effective."

Athos stiffened at the blatant insult but ignored the taunt. "Men had been in and out the blazing building in relays since the fire was discovered to bring out the horses stabled there. He and I made the final attempt together."

Queen Anne gasped, "And you are unhurt?"

"I am, Your Majesty, and I thank you for your inquiry," Athos dipped his head in acknowledgement.

"So, Monsieur Athos, what is it that you and Treville were so eager to tell me yesterday?"

Porthos was seething at the meeting so far. Struggling to contain his anger, he stood a pace behind Athos' right shoulder, his eyes boring into the back of his friend's head because he could not trust himself to look anywhere else, especially in the direction of Rochefort. He knew Athos was speaking but he was not paying any attention to the content, so intent was he at keeping his own temper under control. He focused on the still damp hair curling at the neck of the musketeer in front of him and wondered yet again how his brother could exude such an air of calm. Court behaviour was something that Porthos would never like nor understand and although he knew that Athos had initially been born into those same social ranks, the former comte made it clear that he had no love for the shenanigans of court life but he knew exactly how to play the game and usually Porthos was fascinated when watching him participate.

Now, though, he was too angry by the repeated slights he saw levelled at Treville and the regiment and, in his head, he was running through all the painful ways he would like to make Rochefort pay for his comments.

"But you still have no idea as to who is responsible." Louis was speaking.

Athos hesitated, not wishing to tell an outright lie to his King but unwilling to say too much with Rochefort and Red Guards within hearing. "We do now have a line of inquiry to pursue but it may come to nothing and I would not wish to raise your hopes, Sire. If the lead were to prove promising, I would gladly update Your Majesty at the first opportunity." Athos waited, aware that Rochefort was now staring intently at him, wondering what that lead might be. Even Porthos had begun to listen as he wondered as to the line of inquiry. He was unaware of any specific developments and had not been present when Athos suddenly announced that he thought he might recognise the symbol at last.

Louis narrowed his eyes and contemplated the musketeer's words. "I could always order you to tell me."

Porthos knew from the set of the shoulders and the slight incline of the head to the right that Athos was assuming what Aramis termed his 'innocent' expression. It was confirmed by the slightly regretful tone in his voice when he next spoke and Porthos had to fight to control his features, so close was he to smiling inappropriately with amusement.

"You could, Sire, and I would, of course, comply but I sincerely hope that you would not press me."

Louis gnawed at the knuckle of an index finger as he thought about the situation. "You may keep your mystery to yourself for another twenty-four hours, Monsieur Athos, and then I expect to be enlightened."

Athos dipped his head to signify his agreement.

Rochefort bristled with objection. "Your Majesty, I urge you to insist on being told now. The musketeer regiment – _your_ regiment, Sire – has been nothing but a disappointment to you in recent weeks. They have been little short of useless in their responsibilities with failure after failure. Is it little wonder that some of the citizens of Paris appear to have taken matters into their own hands to express their frustrations? I do not condone their behaviour in bringing lawlessness and danger to the streets of the city. However, they have been witness to these soldiers of yours receiving any number of privileges in your name and for what? When was the last time they successfully fulfilled a duty assigned to them? The people are fully aware that you have been forced to remove their bungling captain from his position of authority and now the entire regiment is in complete disarray. How can it be expected to uphold law and order in the city and, more importantly, afford Your Majesty the protection you deserve?"

Everything within Porthos wanted to protest vehemently at Rochefort's attitude but he knew he had to bite his tongue and maintain his silence. This was Athos' call and he saw the back straighten and the shoulders stiffen. Athos was not going to take this criticism. Even as Porthos watched, Athos made an adjustment to his position, cleverly turning at an angle away from Rochefort, a visual condemnation of the man's verbal assault.

"Your Majesty," he began, his voice clear and ringing in the sparsely furnished room, "may I remind you of what I said yesterday? Any attack on the musketeer regiment is an indirect attack on your royal person. I have given you my reasons as to why I do not wish to divulge any more details at present but I firmly believe that the current wave of attacks on musketeers is not the action of regular Paris citizens. There is some deep-seated motive as yet to be established; it may be the direct result of something done by musketeers or because we are an easier target than your good self, Sire. However, those responsible are organised and ruthless and their threat is not to be taken lightly. We must take steps to safeguard the musketeers."

"Safeguard musketeers!" Rochefort scoffed. "You are trained soldiers, you should be able to safeguard yourselves, not come crawling to His Majesty, expecting him to do it for you. What are you wanting, my Red Guard to be on a twenty-four-hour protection detail?"

Athos smiled but it did not reach his eyes. "I would not want to trouble you or your men, Rochefort. We are quite capable of looking after ourselves but it would be necessary to introduce certain procedures to facilitate that a little more easily. Thank you for frequently reminding us that we are His Majesty's regiment but that fact had not escaped me which is why this audience was requested. Treville and I have discussed a range of contingencies but it is expedient to lay these before His Majesty for his approval."

Having listened carefully to the exchange, Porthos desperately wanted to punch the air in triumph. As far as he was concerned, Athos had put Rochefort in his place and when the King spoke next, it was clear that he thought so too.

"I will not have anyone targeting my regiment; I consider it a slight upon myself and I will not tolerate it. What do you require, Monsieur Athos?"

Athos cleared his throat as he gave himself time to order his thoughts. "Musketeer movement will have to be seriously curtailed. No-one is to move outside the garrison on their own; it is preferable that they be in groups of at least four at all times for we have strong reason to suspect that a minimum of four men are responsible for these assaults. Any soldiers with lodgings in the city will be expected to move into the garrison for the time being, even though it means that many will have to double up in rooms. Those who have families will be encouraged to move them out of Paris if possible or else also bring them within the confines of the garrison. We will make room for them."

"And you honestly think you can protect them there when you suffered a major fire only last night?" Rochefort mocked.

An edge entered Athos voice and Porthos recognised that he was on the verge of losing that tight control. It was quite probably only the presence of the royals that kept the musketeer in check. "It will be the safest place for them. We will not be caught like that again; the number on guard has been significantly increased with immediate effect..."

"Better late than never," Rochefort interrupted.

Athos took a deep breath, anything to give him the opportunity to compose himself. He rounded on Rochefort slowly, deliberately; his green eyes were cold and hard as he enunciated each word carefully. "And we have learned a salutary lesson as a result but I reiterate that we will not make the same mistake twice. We will pre-empt the next strike, take extra precautions and if we are overly cautious then so be it. Let that be the accusation held against us rather than for lackadaisical preventative measures.

"Visits to taverns will henceforth be banned. The men should not be denied their beer and suchlike but it will be brought into the garrison under escort. Its source needs to be reliable so that we know it is not contaminated. Checks will be made on the water supply to the garrison. We are aware at which point it goes underground and feeds the main well; this will be guarded so that the water cannot be poisoned. Having lost our supply cart yesterday, a new order needs to be written, filled and paid for and must take into account that from this time the men will take all their meals on site. As with the taverns, visits to eating houses will be out of bounds for the foreseeable future. When that new supply cart is on its way, it will also have a heavy armed guard. In the meantime, we expect to fulfil our duties and that will include here at the palace, although we will increase the number of those present. As we speak, soldiers of the regiment are clearing the debris from last night and we will set about rebuilding the stables imminently, as long as we can source the materials. We would have the garrison functioning normally as quickly as possible."

"With the regiment being targeted, I think it totally inadvisable for musketeers to be guarding Your Majesties. They could endanger you by simply being in close proximity. That duty should become the domain of the Red Guard with immediate effect," Rochefort insisted.

Athos turned to face Louis. "I would ask Your Majesty to discount that suggestion. What message would that give to the people of Paris? What would be the message to the musketeers themselves? That they do not matter anymore?"

"Given your recent incompetence, I would have thought that much was evident," Rochefort said, his tone contemptuous. "You are an irrelevance; the responsibility of guarding Their Majesties and the Dauphin should be the sole prerogative of the Red Guard."

Rochefort might as well have shot himself in the foot. He had attacked the King's regiment once too often within the hearing of the monarch.

Louis' voice and look were icy. "You forget yourself, Rochefort. The Musketeers were formed on my command; they were my idea and they remain _my_ regiment. If anyone is allowed to be disgruntled with their performance, that is me and me alone and any necessary sanctions are of my making. I will not have them maligned by anyone else, not even you."

"My humble apologies, Your Majesty," and he bowed low but to all gathered in the room, especially the musketeers, the remorse was shallow.

Louis focused his attention on the two soldiers standing before him. "You have presented a sound case, Monsieur Athos, and for that I thank you. I will give you the support you need and will begin by making monies available to you. That supply order is a priority; I will not have my men going hungry. I authorise you to start the rebuilding of the stables and approve the safety measures you have so far presented. Continue your investigations but with care. I would not like to hear of you upsetting the wrong people with your questions, Monsieur Athos," and he laughed at his witticism.

"I would not like that either, Sire," Athos dared to respond and Louis laughed even harder.

"Capital! Capital! I am so glad that on one point we are agreed." He grew serious again. "And I expect a full update at the same time tomorrow, Monsieur Athos. Is that clear?" He rose to his feet, signalling that the audience was at an end.

"Perfectly, Your Majesty," and Athos bowed low, sensing that Porthos did likewise behind him.

Louis walked briskly to the door, paused and spoke once more without turning around. "Monsieur Athos, I would have you pass on a message to Monsieur Treville for me. I know our working relationship is sadly strained at present but for the sake of his past loyalty to me, I would not have him injured and wish him a rapid recovery."

"I thank Your Majesty on his behalf. I will pass on your good wishes, Sire, and know that they will bring him comfort. Be assured, though, that his loyalty to you has never changed."

Louis hesitated at the door for a moment longer, pondering Athos' words, and then he was gone.


	10. Chapter 10

**_A/N Dear all, I cannot believe the number of you who responded to the last chapter! Thank you SO much; I'm glad you're enjoying it! I hope that the next chapter begins to answer the questions you are so eloquently putting._**

 ** _My profuse apologies but with the previous chapters (as with 'Renegade') I have been remiss regarding the accent in Treville's name. I know how to do it (and others) on the computer now and will remedy it from here on in! (Typing this on the site so I don't think I can do it here.)_**

 ** _Anyway, the two brothers are heading back to the garrison where Athos intends to reveal all about the symbol!_**

CHAPTER 10

The mood of the two musketeers as they rode back from the palace was much lighter than on their outward journey. They considered the audience with the King an unmitigated success and Athos was torn between regret that Tréville had not been there to share the experience with him and relief that the injury to the former captain seemed to ignite renewed concern within the monarch. The much needed money had been promised: replacement supplies could be purchased, the men could be paid and the rebuilding of the stables could begin as soon as they sourced the necessary materials. More than that, Louis seemed to be sympathetic to their plight once more and Rochefort, in his arrogance, had managed to upset the King in his own inimitable way but Athos was not naïve enough to think that the insufferable man would not quickly worm his way back into the monarch's favour.

Despite his best efforts, Porthos could not draw out from his brother the meaning behind his veiled comment about having some kind of lead in the investigation. With a wry grin, Athos promised to reveal all when they reached the garrison and urged the big man to exercise some rare patience so that he could share the relevant information at one and the same time in the presence of Tréville, d'Artagnan and Aramis.

It was nearing noon as they rode at a leisurely pace through the streets leading to the garrison and whilst caution was at the back of their minds, the fact that all direct attacks on musketeers had occurred under cover of darkness meant that they believed themselves to be relatively safe in broad daylight and in a busy street. Even so, their vigilance was second-nature to them and their eyes constantly roamed the thoroughfare and faces of the people walking past them but they saw nothing amiss.

They were two streets away from the garrison when the attack came and it came from above them, from an upper storey window of a residential building. When he talked about it afterwards, Porthos claimed he did not know what had possessed him to look upwards. Aramis smiled indulgently and suggested that the answer was simple; it could be nothing more than divine intervention. Athos was not so readily convinced and was more prepared to attribute it to sheer luck but would not dismiss out of hand Aramis' strongly held belief.

Whatever it was, at the appropriate moment Porthos raised his eyes and saw the movement at the upper window just as the musket barrel was braced upon the sill and aimed in their direction. He did not even have the time to yell a warning. Instead, he threw himself sideways from his own saddle and cannoned into his companion, bringing the two of them crashing to the ground on the far side of Athos' horse just as the familiar cough of the musket sounded, its ball gouging out a path in the brick wall at head height had Athos, the shorter of the two, still been astride his mount.

Immediately, panic broke out in the Paris street. People were running, women screaming, men yelling as they frantically sought cover, fearful that the attack was not over and that they could be innocently caught between any exchange that might ensue between the musketeers and their unseen foe. The horses circled restlessly, whinnying their nervousness as their heightened senses picked up on the tense atmosphere.

Athos groaned after the bone-jarring impact with the ground and finding himself pinned down by Porthos who had landed on top of him in a tangle of limbs and weapons.

"You hurt?" Porthos asked, his nose mere inches from Athos' own.

"I'm not sure," Athos gasped. "I seem to have several weapons pressing uncomfortably into various parts of my body and you squashing the life out of me."

"Sorry," Porthos said hastily but made no effort to move. Instead, he peered through the legs of the horses into the suddenly empty street. "Do you reckon he's gone?"

"I am hardly in a position to be the best judge of that," Athos ground out. "Only a fool would hang around after failing to make that shot."

"I reckon so too," Porthos agreed, remaining where he was.

Where they both lay, they could feel the vibration through the earth of approaching booted feet. Figures burst into view and shouts filled the air as the shot had been heard back at the garrison and musketeers had armed themselves as quickly as possible before pouring into the street. So many armed men added to the fear and the normal citizens had bolted and barred doors and windows whilst others had sought refuge in a couple of taverns and the surrounding shops.

"Athos! Porthos!" the worry in d'Artagnan's voice was unmistakable as he neared the two horses. His view was hampered by the animals and he could only partially see where his two brothers were prostrate in the dirt. He held his breath as he pushed the rump of Athos' horse to move it out the way and gain access to his fallen friends. Aramis was close behind him. "Is either of you hurt?" he asked frantically, leaning over the pair.

From where he lay, Athos looked up at the incongruous image of the upside- down d'Artagnan. "I would have said no but if Porthos does not get off me soon, I cannot vouchsafe his continued wellbeing!"

Porthos let loose with an expletive and leaped nimbly to his feet, extending a hand down to Athos to pull him upright. Regaining his feet, the slighter musketeer bent over, hands resting on his knees as he breathed deeply, taking mental stock of his numerous aches.

"What happened?" Aramis demanded.

Porthos indicated the upper window of a house opposite. "Musket shot from there," he said pointedly.

Without hesitation, Aramis signalled to a group of five men who ran towards the building, intent upon searching it but knowing that their quarry would undoubtedly have left. He would have gone himself but he needed to be assured that his friends truly were unscathed.

"Are you sure you are fine?" he asked anxiously, a hand lightly on the big man's shoulder.

"Absolutely," Porthos assured him and looked sheepishly at where Athos straightened, groaning softly as he did so. "I had me a soft landing."

"And you?" Aramis turned his attention to the other man.

"I _was_ the soft landing," Athos clarified. D'Aragnan, hands on his hips, laughed at his friend's discomfort.

"Any hurts?" Aramis persisted.

"Probably a few bruises from my landing and weapons pressing in on me but I'll live." He eyed the passage of the ball in the stonework and turned to Porthos, hand extended, his face serious. "It could have been a lot worse were it not for your quick thinking, my friend. Thank you."

Porthos took the proffered hand and shook it. Neither was sure who actually made the first move but the next moment the two men were embracing, trying to ignore how close they had come to yet another tragedy, one that would have been deeply personal.

Athos slapped Porthos on the back and was the first to pull away. "How did you know?"

"I happened to look up and saw the musket move. There wasn't time to warn you any other way."

Looking round at the musketeers who had protectively enclosed the men in a semi-circle, backs towards them in order to watch the street, Athos bent to pick up his hat. Banging it against his thigh to rid it of dust, he saw the group re-emerge from the house and head in his direction. "Anything?" he asked and was not surprised when they shook their heads.

Caronne spoke up. "There was that symbol again, scratched into the wall below the window."

"Speaking of which …" Aramis began, looking directly at Athos.

"Let's get back to the garrison and join Tréville. We will talk about it then," Athos assured him, reaching for the trailing reins of his mount and starting to walk in the direction of the only place he acknowledged as home, a home that was under a serious threat.

…..

The _Inseparables_ gathered in the mess hall with Tréville when at last they were within the relative safety of the garrison walls. The priority was to impart the good news of Athos' productive exchange with the King and the four younger men were rewarded by a visible relaxing of Tréville's taut posture for he had been on tenterhooks ever since he had been excluded from the meeting. The tension re-emerged though as Porthos recounted the details of what had happened on the return journey and Aramis added all that had happened from the moment the sound of the shot was heard by those at the garrison.

His accurate and fluid account was all the more commendable given that he was simultaneously struggling to persuade Athos to remove his shirt and then to sit still whilst being examined. There were times, Aramis mused, when he thought he was dealing with a recalcitrant child rather than a grown man.

"Nothing broken," Aramis confirmed as he undid a jar of liniment.

"I said I was fine," Athos insisted archly, reaching for his shirt which lay discarded on the table top near him.

Aramis slapped his hand away from the garment and scowled. "Forgive me if I take no notice of that declaration. Your definition of the word 'fine' never coincides with that of anyone else so humour me whilst I apply some of this to draw out the bruising," and he proceeded to smooth some of the evil-smelling concoction over the array of pinkish-purple marks already angrily making their presence visible on the pale skin.

"It looks like they are having no trouble appearing on their own," Tréville observed sardonically as Athos was eventually given leave to ease the loose shirt over his head.

"It's a miracle there aren't loads more," d'Artagnan sniggered. "I'm surprised he wasn't flattened having had Porthos land on him!"

"You definitely would've been!" Aramis quipped as he sat down at the table and reached for one of the cups of wine Porthos had just poured.

Tréville attempted to smile at the banter as the younger men's laughter ran around the table but he knew well enough that one of the strategies employed by them to deal with the serious was by making light of it. Their 'devil may care' attitude at times hid their more heartfelt concerns. In this case, had Porthos not had the presence of mind to act quickly, either he could have received a potentially life-threatening injury or, more likely, Athos would have definitely been killed by a head shot. It all rested upon the position of Porthos in relation to the attacker and no-one at the table was intent on pursuing that any further. It did not need to be voiced aloud that one of them had had a very close escape from being added to the list of casualties.

"Now, about that symbol," Tréville prompted, his eyes boring into Athos.

"If I told you to think of it another way, perhaps that would help," Athos began. "Imagine it as a silvery-white symbol on an aqua-blue background." He waited patiently for any flicker of recognition in their expressions but for Porthos and Aramis there was none, save for their frowns which suggested that they were thinking hard. D'Artagnan was, understandably, at a total loss and looked bemusedly from one to the other of them.

Recollection dawned in Tréville's eyes though. "Are you sure?" His voice was nothing more than a disbelieving whisper and, when Athos nodded, he moaned.

Aramis knew, from both their reactions, that the news was not good. "Would either of you care to enlighten us?"

Athos took a deep breath. "It's the coat of arms of Saint Martin de Ré."

As d'Artagnan watched his friends, the colour drained from Aramis' face and his head bowed whilst Porthos muttered something unintelligible, the angst-ridden tone signalling his feelings only too clearly.

They fell silent, each of them lost in his own thoughts and memories.

D'Artagnan was very conscious of the fact that he was excluded from the evidently terrible experience that united the other four men and he desperately wanted to know more, not from any sense of ghoulishness but from a heart-felt need to share the men's apparent burden.

"I don't understand," he said softly, prevailing upon them to explain.

"Be thankful that you don't," Porthos growled.

"1627," Athos began, "and the start of the third Huguenot rebellion. It was the siege of La Rochelle and the English invasion of the Île de Ré. Louis wanted to join Richelieu there so the entire Musketeer regiment went along too."

"And rather than just protecting 'is Majesty, he 'ad us fillin' in wherever it took 'is fancy," Porthos concluded. He refilled all of their cups with ale and, unbidden, the four raised them in a silent toast to some memory whilst d'Artagnan looked on.

"Will you tell me?" asked d'Artagnan. "Tell me what happened?"

"Yes but not now," Athos said quietly. "There will be time enough for that and soon but right now we have much to plan. The realisation of what that symbol means raises many questions that should be asked; there are people to be seen and things we need to check. We need to act quickly and do as much as possible for the King expects an update at ten tomorrow morning." He looked at Tréville with an earnestness. "We will go together."


	11. Chapter 11

**_A/N Okay, I know I said Wednesday for this chapter but it was finished and how could I resist when you have all been so wonderful in taking me to the magic century with your comments? I also appreciate that some of you are 'chomping at the bit' to find out what happened at La Rochelle etc and are eager to learn about it, just like d'Artagnan. Rest assured, those events will begin unfolding soon and they will be told in flashback as a major chunk of the story itself. Research continues and sources have, unfortunately, been a little contradictory so I have had to make decisions and will include brief footnotes to that effect._**

 ** _This chapter really focuses on how the garrison has gone into a sort of 'lockdown' but they are by no means free from danger! I hope you enjoy it. Many thanks again to all of you who take the time and trouble to respond; they all mean so much and so many of you have now also put the story as 'favourite' or 'to follow'._**

CHAPTER 11

Less than twenty-four hours later, Tréville and Athos rode at the centre of a group of eight musketeers as they headed towards the palace where Louis was expecting to be updated on the investigations into the attacks on the regiments and their garrison. There was no way that the strikes against the King's soldiers could be kept quiet now and the only talk on the street was of the casualties that had been sustained so far, as well as the musket fired in the public thoroughfare the previous day. The people of Paris were scared, wary of being caught as the innocent victims in any prospective altercation between the King's soldiers and whoever was targeting them. They were also nervous about the line of questioning the musketeers might pursue and with whom. The soldiers could not be blamed if they sought their own retribution for the cruelties visited upon them and the citizens' fear, understandably, was that the guiltless amongst them might fall foul of hasty, unfounded accusations.

As the ten armed men rode through the streets, the people fell back to give them room - some even taking refuge in the doorways of nearby buildings - and watched in silence as the group passed. The reaction was unnerving to the soldiers but they sat straight-backed in their saddles, even as their eyes continued to peruse the streets and the upper storey windows, mindful as they were of the unprovoked attack upon Porthos and Athos the day before.

On reaching the courtyard of the palace without incident, the escort dismounted to wait whilst Athos and Tréville entered the building, the latter having fallen uncharacteristically silent so that the younger man wondered at his apparent nervousness. This time, fortunately, there were no delays and punctually at the hour of ten, the King received them, accompanied by the Queen, some courtiers and, unhappily for the musketeers, Rochefort with several of his guard. Louis was making his own statement that the men of his regiment were not totally absolved of their shortcomings and he nodded curtly in their direction before seating himself and carefully re-arranging his exquisitely decorated doublet.

"Good morning, gentlemen," he acknowledged as the two bent low. "Monsieur Tréville, I trust you have recovered sufficiently from the injuries you received?"

"I have, Your Majesty, and I thank you for your concern." Tréville's voice was quiet but clear.

Louis turned his attention to the other man and his eyes narrowed. "I have humoured you for a day, Monsieur Athos, but now I would have you speak plainly. Withhold nothing or you may find that I will withhold my renewed support."

Athos exchanged an anxious glance with Tréville regarding the King's brusqueness. They had no evidence but they both suspected that Rochefort had put the intervening hours since the last audience to good use in pouring further doubt in the monarch's hearing with regards to the regiment. It was manifestly evident that the good favour extended by the King the previous day remained precarious. Unbeknownst to Athos, Tréville was already beginning to wallow in the belief that it was his own presence that was turning the tide of Louis' sympathies against them once more. He nodded to Athos, encouraging him to commence his explanation.

The first thing he divulged was the meaning of the symbol and it gave him a grim satisfaction when he heard Louis gasp in surprise and saw the King sit forward attentively to hear more. Rochefort was forgotten.

"You are sure of this?" Louis demanded.

"Undoubtedly, Sire," Athos asserted.

"I presume that nothing else has happened since the stable fire," Rochefort interrupted, seemingly anxious that his presence would not go unnoticed any longer.

"You presume wrong," Athos corrected him coolly and he went on to describe the attack levelled at Porthos and him after they had departed from the palace.

"You are both unharmed?" the Queen wanted to know. He saw that even Constance from her position slightly behind and to the right of Anne had raised a hand to her lips in consternation.

"We are, Your Majesty. The Musketeers have been fully engaged in pursuing the matter since then, as well as increasing our security measures. As a result of what I raised yesterday, six families had left Paris by late in the afternoon and a further nine had moved into rooms within the garrison, as well as those men who rent lodgings within the city. Accommodation at the garrison is currently overcrowded, with many men doubling up or more in their quarters to facilitate the newcomers."

Keen to set the appropriate example, he had given up his own room to a family of five and, as a result, the four _Inseparables_ had opted to bed down in Aramis' room although conditions were unavoidably spartan.

The afternoon and evening had seen musketeers emptying their few personal belongings from one room to another. Serge had spearheaded a team as they emptied the stores of spare bedding and filled sacking with straw for makeshift mattresses for those soldiers resigned to sleeping on the floor for the foreseeable future. Beds were at a premium and some of those had been purposefully relocated to rooms housing families; two small, narrow beds pushed together now probably slept a couple and two young children or were assigned to a wife and daughters whilst the husband and sons took to the floor like many of the other soldiers.

D'Artagnan had been initially tasked with the mundane, preparing adequate storage and sleeping space for the four friends in Aramis's room as the bed was inadequate for any more than the marksman alone. It was going to be a trying time for there was no end in sight to the present arrangement. Whilst none of them would willingly leave the room of a sick brother and they were familiar with being forced to share rooms or makeshift tents on missions, their individual space within the garrison had always afforded them a kind of privacy, something they all valued in their own way, especially Athos. No soldier's room was overly large, designed as it was for one man. Now four were to be accommodated together and that situation was being repeated elsewhere. The _Inseparables_ were big men, all six feet tall and above and prolonged close proximity was going to test them. By the time d'Artagnan had re-arranged four sets of belongings and spare clothing and laid out three temporary mattresses and bedding, floor space had all but disappeared so, where possible, they would have to retire and rise at the same time to minimise clambering over each other; heaven help anyone who needed to move during the night and they were all too aware that Porthos had a tendency to snore heavily. They were set to face interesting times! Once he had done that, d'Artagnan was assigned to checking the accommodation arrangements throughout the garrison, registering all those who now resided within its walls and where. It could be necessary to be able to find a particular musketeer and quickly.

Aramis had spent the afternoon in what passed as the infirmary, checking supplies and making a list of anything that was out of stock or needed topping up. Serge had sent a kitchen boy to assist him by cutting and rolling bandages. Whilst they feared further injury to anyone caused by the attackers, there was the added pressure presented by the current serious overcrowding within the garrison. All they needed was the outbreak of disease and it would spread through the place like a wildfire.

Porthos had spent the time along with three other men working with the armourer, checking the items against the inventory and ensuring that all weapons were in working order or sharpened. Ammunition stocks were carefully assessed and an emergency requisition order drawn up; this was no time for resources to run down. Given the infiltration of the garrison by the enemy, a two-man guard was to be mounted at all times on the armoury alone and that was not the only one to be added or increased.

Athos and Tréville had sat together in the office for the rest of the day and well into the night, exploring every avenue that might enhance the security of the garrison and thereby the safety of its men. As the younger man had informed the King, musketeer movement was not to be in any group smaller than four in number and three such groups had been instrumental in accompanying those moving into the garrison. The only ones not assigned security were those families leaving the city. Whilst the six men concerned had been granted time to escort their loved ones to safety, they were under strict instruction to do so in ordinary clothing and not in anything that could be construed as musketeer uniform so as not to draw unwanted attention to themselves.

Alcohol orders had been placed without advanced warning with several nearby taverns. The random selection of casks of ale and wine was made at the point of purchase by the musketeers sent simultaneously on the task, the intention being to procure supplies without anyone knowing of the plan and thereby having time to contaminate or poison the goods. Each of the purchases was brought back to the garrison under armed guard.

The same had happened with the food supplies. Serge was forced to increase his order with the influx of personnel and family members, and the stolen provisions still had to be replaced. They were due to be collected at the same time Athos and Tréville were at the palace and D'Artagnan was designated to be part of the guard detail escorting the delivery. The water supply to the garrison was also afforded its own protection for the men would be particularly vulnerable if anyone had access to add anything detrimental to their water source. With an increased number of guards at the main gate and a greater visible presence around the perimeter, the men were stretched to the limit as there were always some having to make the most of their reduced off-duty time before taking their turn at the various tasks. A team of twelve still worked on clearing the remains of the stable whilst others were delegated to watching over the horses as they grazed in the pasture and exercise grounds behind the garrison. With the demise of young Georges who had shouldered much of the work, more tending of the animals fell to musketeers. Another armed detail of eight men had been deployed during the afternoon with carts to collect straw and feed for the mounts whilst the first small delivery of timber had arrived and been carefully searched before being admitted through the entrance archway.

"You have had a busy time of it," Louis observed as he listened to all that Athos told him. The musketeer was relieved that the monarch was actually giving him his undivided attention for his concentration was known to lapse. If bored, the King was easily distracted but this was appertaining to his regiment and he was definitely giving the impression of being concerned.

"There has been little time for rest, Sire," Athos agreed. "We suspect that we have been under close scrutiny from those who would do us harm – they must have been monitoring our movements - so yesterday afternoon, musketeers began searching properties close to the garrison. As of yet, they have found nothing but that work will continue today.

"Meanwhile, we," and he looked at Tréville to include him, "have spent much of the night reading through the regimental accounts of the musketeer involvement at La Rochelle and Île de Ré, making a list of those Huguenots that we encountered, those whom we knew perished in the engagements and those who were subsequently imprisoned, especially here in the Chatelet.

"We intend going on there after this meeting is concluded for we want to check records to see if any of the prisoners have been released recently. Aramis will visit Cardinal Mazarin to seek access to Cardinal Richelieu's records or at least persuade him to review the documents on our behalf to see if there is anything there that might assist."

"Your Majesty," Tréville began, "I know you kept official records as well as a personal diary. I would never presume to ask to peruse them but I beseech you to review them to consider whether they contain any information that would be of benefit to us. Those responsible for attacking the regiment have some link to the Île de Ré and perhaps La Rochelle and they have to be identified."

"It may not directly be them but they could well have supporters within the city acting on their behalf," Athos continued. "We need to track down and investigate underground Huguenot cells in Paris."

Louis brought his fist down noisily on the arm of his chair. "Damned Huguenots. We gave them too much licence in the past. How dare they rear their heads again in my city. Find them, gentlemen; ferret them out and they will pay the price. I will not have them stirring dissent in my city or country and I will not have them killing the men of my regiment."

"Can you be so sure of this yet, Your Majesty?" Rochefort intervened. "This could be nothing more than a singular malcontent who has fixated upon an event and romanticised about it."

"We know of at least four perpetrators as I have said before," Athos confirmed. "The events of 1627 mean much to them. If a group of them is now at large and intent upon retribution, His Majesty could be in grave danger as a result of the political and religious consequences of that period of unrest."

"The Musketeers were prominent in their involvement as I believe," Rochefort went on not to be deterred. "I dare say you must have done something to upset those Protestants."

"I dare say we did," Athos said darkly. "They were besieged at La Rochelle and within Saint Martin de Ré and a lot of them died, thousands on the main land. We probably upset quite a number of them. Forgive me, you were not there, were you?" His deliberate barb hit home and Rochefort bristled.

"I was not, no," he said archly, refusing to be drawn any further.

"Monsieur Athos," the King said, "I have been thinking. If the attacks truly are due to Huguenots retaliating for those events, they must be stopped. The Musketeers must make that their sole responsibility. From this moment – and until we are in a position to decide otherwise – the Red Guard will take on all duties here at the palace."

Both Athos and Tréville began to object, especially when they saw Rochefort's victorious smirk but it did not go unnoticed by anyone, least of all the King himself.

"It is only an interim measure, Rochefort; of that I can assure you. However, the Musketeers will be employed elsewhere so I presume your Guard can manage that addition to their responsibilities?"

"Of course, Your Majesty; it will be a pleasure to be of service to you in this manner. My men will undertake the responsibility seriously and you will have no cause to worry. I will arrange the roster immediately."

"Good. In the meantime," and the King turned his attention back to the musketeers, "I wish you well in your investigations. I will spend the rest of the day looking at the documents as you requested; Rochefort can bring them to me before he gets too distracted with rosters and other things."

Athos fought to suppress the smile that threatened. At times, the King could be so much like a sulking child but he had not achieved all that he had over the years by exercising only spoilt petulance; he had the ability to be incredibly observant and demonstrated his own acerbic wit. Surprisingly, he seemed to be fully cognisant of Rochefort's current motivation.

"Take care, gentlemen. I am in no mood to lose any more of my musketeers. I will anxiously await tomorrow's update and trust that I, too, will have news for you," Louis continued.

"About that, Sire," Athos ventured. "It is imperative at present that we are not seen to develop predictive habits; we would expose ourselves to possible threat, especially in the light of what happened yesterday. Today is the second time we have attended a ten o'clock meeting so I would suggest that we alter the appointment tomorrow."

"Most sensible, Monsieur Athos. I applaud your ability to think about so many aspects of this situation. I therefore suggest that we re-convene at two in the afternoon."

"Agreed, Your Majesty," and both he and Tréville bowed in agreement to the King's consideration.

Louis rose to leave, Anne at his side, and all those gathered joined in a deferential bow or curtsey. As the King made to walk past Rochefort he stopped, index finger raised as if he had suddenly thought of something important.

"And, Rochefort," he began.

"Your Majesty?" came the oily response.

"If I become aware of anything that has been said within this room being discussed outside of its walls, I shall look first to you and your men. Do I make myself clear?"

Rochefort froze momentarily but swiftly recovered. "Completely, Your Majesty."

When the royal party had departed, Rochefort scowled at the two musketeers, snapped his fingers at his own guard in an order to follow and swept from the room.

Athos and Tréville looked at each other and let out the breaths they had been holding.

Jubilant, Tréville clapped Athos on the shoulder. "Come, we need to get to the chatelet and then return to the garrison. We have good news to share and I hope it will do much to restore the men's flagging spirits. The King is for us again."

"For the time being," Athos said carefully. He did not want to destroy the older man's positivity but the King was well-known for his fickleness.

Tréville was not deterred, his mood ebullient as the two moved to rejoin their waiting men. They had exited a side door into a palace yard, however, when they saw the musketeers already mounted and their numbers swelled by Aramis and three others. Aramis walked his horse forward to intercept the two men, his expression grave.

Athos put a hand to the horse's bridle. "What is it?" he asked quietly, looking up at his friend and knowing that the news had to be anything but good.

"The supply cart has been intercepted once more," Aramis explained.

"What!" Athos exclaimed. "It has been stolen again? The regiment can't afford to pay a third time for supplies it has not received!"

"No! Calm yourself, Athos. The cart has arrived at the garrison. The carter was unharmed and two men saw it safely to us!"

"Two? Which two? Six men were dispatched to accompany it! What has happened to them? D'Artagnan was with them. Tell me he is safe!"

Aramis sat atop his horse and pulled upon the reins to hold the restless animal steady as he looked down upon his troubled brother and knew he did not have the words to reassure him. He glanced at Tréville as if seeking help but the older man merely shook his head in muted disbelief as he instantly guessed the real message behind the words.

"Daniau and Bonnay brought the cart in and were able to give a precise account as to what happened. D'Artagnan ordered them to leave and make haste and said that he and the others would hold off their assailants. Porthos left immediately with a dozen men to go to their aid where they came under attack less than a mile from the garrison. I said I would bring the news to you."

Athos moved to his horse and sprang into the saddle. "Let's go," he insisted, face already an inscrutable mask as he pulled the animal's head around to face the exit.

"Where are you going?" Aramis asked, moving alongside him.

"There are fourteen of us here. We will join with Porthos; there are more than enough of us to take them on," he declared through gritted teeth.

"And Porthos has more than enough with him; he does not need us. We cannot turn the streets of Paris into a bloodbath," Trévlle insisted, moving to the other side of him so that his mount was sandwiched between the two of them.

Athos glared at his former captain. "They are the ones who have brought the bloodbath to us!"

"Indeed but to pursue a handful of men with nothing short of a small army will bring terror to the people of this city. Too much time has elapsed. Be advised; we will head for the garrison and if we hear any disturbance as we ride, we will make a detour to render our assistance but our efforts are best served by riding back to the rest of the men to ensure that all is secure there." Tréville stared at Athos as if challenging him to disagree and he watched the warring emotions mar the handsome features.

It seemed ages but was in fact only seconds before Athos nodded his agreement, albeit reluctantly. Without waiting for the others, he spurred his horse into action and rode away from the palace, heart in mouth. He knew that he should be impartial but it was impossible as he feared for the youngest member of the _Inseparables_.


	12. Chapter 12

_**A/N Greetings! For some reason, this chapter has been causing me headaches over the last few days but, eager to leave you something, here it is. My proof reading has not been totally thorough, although I have done a spell/grammar check so please forgive me the odd typo if they arise. I have been typing in haste.**_

 _ **Of necessity, I have played around with ages slightly. At the start of the novel, Dumas says Athos is not yet thirty with Aramis a few years younger and d'Artagnan in his late teens. Dumas opens the book in 1625 and the BBC series 1 is in 1630 so I've sort of played with both dates and ages in keeping with that and roughly taking into consideration the actors' ages when assuming the roles so I hope that you'll just 'go along with me' on that one!**_

 _ **At some point during next week, the La Rochelle back story WILL begin. I'm not sure whether it'll be one chapter before that happens or two but, rest assured, we will be there by this time next week.**_

 _ **As ever, my thanks to all of you who continue to follow this story and afford me much encouragement. 'See you' next week.**_

CHAPTER 12

All was quiet in the streets of Paris so the group rode as quickly as they dared. No frantic shouts or the sound of discharged weapons were to be heard and the journey was uninterrupted. Having led all the way back to the garrison, Athos' horse was the first to clatter past the increased guard detail and through the archway into a scene of organised chaos for Porthos and the rescue team had arrived before them. Those who were clearing the debris from the stables had broken off from their work to assist whilst other musketeers had emerged from doorways to pensively watch events unfolding, there being too many men and horses milling about in the yard to add to their number.

Athos slid from the saddle before his mount had even halted and, passing the reins to a man who materialised at his side, he strode towards Porthos who was shouting instructions to the throng to clear the yard of men and animals quickly. It was painfully obvious to all that the destruction caused by the fire and spread over the greater section of the yard needed to be moved sooner rather than later as it added to the mayhem.

"Report," Athos demanded. A mere glance was sufficient in reassuring him that Porthos had sustained no obvious injury.

"We were there within ten minutes of the attack startin' but those responsible 'ad gone and the streets were empty. It'll be no good goin' back to ask questions; I reckon no-one would've seen or 'eard anythin'," Porthos explained, his anger clear but he was unsure as to where that ire could be most productively directed.

"Our men? What of them?" Athos said, his voice sounding strangled, as if it was coming from somewhere beyond him and not from him at all.

Porthos understood the root of his concern and wasted no time in addressing his trepidation as Aramis and Tréville also drew close. "D'Artagnan is alive but unconscious." He hesitated, seeing the immediate spark of relief cross Athos features before delivering his shocking addendum. "Two of the others didn't make it an' Caronne is just about hangin' on; he's hurt badly."

Athos closed his eyed and suppressed a groan. Two more men gone in an unprovoked attack and, as he thought of them, he realised that one was the husband and father of a family who had moved into the garrison less than twenty-four hours before. Caronne, now fighting for survival, had been one of the musketeers to have rushed to his and Porthos' aid when they had fallen victim to the aggressor a day earlier. When was this madness going to end? How many more honourable men were to lose their lives whilst endeavouring to go about their daily business?

"Where is d'Artagnan?" he asked urgently and, when Porthos indicated the mess room, he headed in that direction remembering as he went that, out of necessity, one of the families had been billeted in the so-called infirmary.

Entering the warmth of the room, he saw the young musketeer stretched out on a table top. In the absence of Aramis, it had been left to the cook to sit beside him and gently bathe the blood from a head wound. The grim consequence of the latest assault was clear for all to see. Whilst Serge attended the youngest musketeer, Caronne lay frighteningly still on the next table whilst on the floor, two more bodies lay side by side, their identities concealed by blankets hastily thrown over them.

The garrison was fast becoming a morgue for its own men. They had been so distracted by the stable fire that the funerals and re-interment already planned by Aramis had been postponed and as yet had not been rescheduled. Stored in an outhouse, the dead lay covered but it was disrespectful for them to remain there any longer and Athos added to his rapidly growing mental list that the funerals were a priority for the next day. He or Tréville needed to send an urgent message to the priest whilst he would organise a burial detail to dig …. He broke off as he wondered how many graves were required and felt the first stirrings of nausea in his tense stomach as he ran silently through the names: Moreau; Thibaut, his wife and two children; Duprés, Hubert and Georges, all slain on the night of the stable fire and now Amyot and Lanthier, cut down as they protected the food supply. Benin, no longer considered a suicide, was to be reburied in consecrated ground. Eleven graves in all and he was fearful that more were to come.

He could not avoid it any longer; he had to know.

"How is he, Serge?" he asked softly, approaching d'Artagnan and letting his hand tentatively touch the young man's shoulder before resting there as if to convince himself that the corporeal form was no illusion.

"He'll live," the grizzled old soldier answered, standing back as Aramis arrived and bent to examine the bloodied line that ran from the left temple and up into the hairline. It was not that the marksman doubted the ministrations of Serge but he wanted to reassure himself that the youngest _Inseparable_ was in no further danger.

Athos hooked his foot around the leg of a chair and drew it towards him, dropping onto it as he nervously watched Aramis gently touch the injury to determine its extent. It was only when he straightened and looked across at Athos with a winsome smile that the older man visibly relaxed.

"He is lucky," Aramis confirmed. "A musket ball has creased him but it is not deep and will heal. It may not even scar. He should awaken soon and when he does, I've no doubt that he'll have a terrible headache for a while."

"Have we any idea what happened?" Athos asked, looking around at them as Porthos joined them. Tréville, meanwhile, had gone immediately to the frighteningly still musketeer on the next table.

"From what I've patched together," Porthos explained, "they came under fire about a mile away, much the same as you an' I did yesterday because they 'ad one up 'igh an' 'e killed Amyot instantly. Others came out of nowhere, firin' an' shoutin' according to Bonnay. That's when d'Artagnan ordered 'im and Daniau to escort the cart back 'ere as fast as they could whilst the three of 'em remainin' took cover and started firin' back. Bonnay couldn't be sure as to how many they were but he reckoned on at least four."

"Our mystery quartet again," Athos muttered under his breath. "Did they get any of them?" He was hoping that with one body or prisoner, the musketeers might be able to identify the assailants and have some sort of lead but luck, as ever, seemed to have completely abandoned them.

"If any were hit," Porthos went on, "their colleagues made sure they took 'em with 'em. I 'ad a quick look round but the only blood seemed to belong to our men; no drag marks or spatters. I think our lot were so taken by surprise that the attack was spread out like that in a Paris street that they didn't get the chance to put up much of a fight. By the time d'Artagnan and the other two had managed to create enough coverin' fire for the cart to get away, they wouldn't have had the time to reload before the attackers were shootin' at 'em or had moved in on 'em. Lanthier was shot twice, either one of the wounds fatal, an' Caronne was stabbed from behind. D'Artagnan was just lyin' there already unconscious."

"Aramis!" Tréville called quietly, the urgency in his voice was unmistakable as he stood with one hand on Caronne's brow and an anguished look upon his face.

Leaving d'Artagnan temporarily, Aramis moved swiftly to the other fallen musketeer and felt at the neck for a pulse, a gesture he had made so often in the past. He waited, hardly daring to breathe in case it meant that he would miss weak but vital signs. There was nothing and, at length, he sighed and straightened up, shaking his head sadly.

The relentless attacks upon the King's regiment had just claimed their thirteenth victim; unlucky indeed!

A low moan broke the silence, drawing attention back to the one injured man who had thus far survived.

"d'Artagnan?" Athos began, gripping his hand as if he wanted to pull him bodily back into the land of the living. "d'Artgnan? Can you hear me?" He settled back onto the chair and watched as the young man struggled painfully and slowly back into consciousness.

Porthos loomed large at the other side of the table. "You come on back now, d'Artagnan. Y'hear me?"

Not yet fully aware, d'Artgnan fought to sit up but his aching, spinning head prevented him, along with the restraining hand that Athos lay on his chest.

"Ssshh, easy now. You're fine but don't try to move too soon," Athos ordered and waited until the patient had calmed and the fluttering eyes tried to focus on the familiar figures around him.

Porthos made way for Aramis to resume his examination of the young musketeer whilst Athos remained unmoving, his hand resting lightly on the tan doublet. It was then that he became mindful of an interruption in the smoothness of the leather. Perplexed, he ran his fingers lightly over the doublet's surface and moved so that he was not blocking his own light from the window behind him. The nearly pristine surface of the leather doublet had been irreparably scored and, even as he inspected it more closely, Athos knew what he would find.

Scratched deeply into the right hand side at chest level was the wretched symbol!

Athos swallowed hard to suppress the rising gall at what had happened to the young musketeer and the awful thought of what might have been. One of the attackers had been so close, had taken the risk to delay long enough to leave the all-too familiar mark about his person! D'Artagnan had come perilously close to being another statistic in the rising death toll. He was suddenly aware that dark eyes were at last focused and watching him closely so he forced a smile.

"It's about time you woke up," he said as jovially as he could muster. "I don't recall giving you permission to sleep on the job." He took the cup of water offered him by Aramis and slid a hand beneath d'Artagnan's head in order to raise him a little for him to sip at the liquid. "Not too much now," he ordered concernedly as the younger man tried to take a mouthful and coughed harshly as a result before wincing at the white-hot pain that erupted in his head.

"I'll make you a draught to help with that headache," Aramis announced. "That's if I can find everything," he added worriedly, remembering that when the infirmary had been vacated for a family, remedies and supplies had been hastily packed in boxes and he was not at all sure where they were to be located.

Serge noticed his dilemma. "Some o' that stuff is bein' stored out the back," and he led the way out to the kitchens area to help search for the relevant herbs.

"Do you remember anything?" Tréville asked as he joined the small group. He was still visibly shaken by the demise of yet another musketeer.

D'Artagnan frowned as he tried to ascertain just what he could recall of the day's events. "I was with some others out in the street …" he began.

"You were part of the escort duty for the food supplies," Porthos added to help him in the context of his activity.

"Yes," d'Artagnan's response was slow, "and then we came under attack. Someone – Amyot, I think – was hit first and fell from his horse. I … I shouted for the two at the front to go with the cart - I don't remember who it was."

"Daniau and Bonnay," Porthos offered again.

The names obviously meant little to the younger man. "And then my head hurt; I must've been hit. I was on the ground and the world was all hazy. Someone was leaning over me – one of them – and then another one was close as I heard him say 'Leave him. He's too young.' The one kneeling by me said, 'But he's still a musketeer,' and the other one said. 'It doesn't matter. He can be as much of a message left alive as the others are dead.'

"Are you sure?" Athos asked, leaning closer. "Those were their words?"

"More or less," d'Artagnan reassured him, wincing at the throbbing in his head and screwing up his eyes to shut out the light.

"You did well, just rest," Athos instructed, rising to his feet as he pondered on his friend's words. Age continued to be an integral link to all that was happening.

The latest three were in their mid- to late thirties whilst he was fast approaching his thirty-second birthday and Porthos was a few months younger. D'Artagnan, thankfully alive, was in his early twenties. He did not fulfil the attackers' criteria for it was exceedingly clear that they were pursuing musketeers in a specific age range, one that potentially had them all serving in the regiment back in 1627. There were older men who had obtained commissions more recently but the enemy – for that was what they were – had no way of determining who they were. He could see no other explanation than that the targets were all men who could have been at La Rochelle and Saint Martin de Ré.

That left a terrifying number of men still in danger - the greater portion of the regiment to be precise - and that included Tréville, Aramis, Porthos and himself!


	13. Chapter 13

**_A/N Greetings all. I have a sneaky suspicion you are all going to hate me at where I've left this chapter but I am not going to apologise! Until Wednesday ..._**

CHAPTER 13

The darkness gradually began to lighten, metamorphosing into a hazy greyness. This, ultimately, took on a sharpness of detail as though a fine veil was being lifted and it was into this new reality that d'Artagnan eventually awakened. He lay still on his back and tried to take stock of his surroundings, dimly lit as they were by flickering candlelight with the blackness beyond the window signifying that night had fallen. He frowned, trying to recall what had happened during the rest of the day and wondering how time had apparently passed so quickly.

"Welcome back," a familiar voice said softly. He looked up as Aramis leaned over him, consternation giving way to a warm smile.

He tried to speak but he seemed unable to elicit any intelligible sound.

Hands supported him under his arms and around his back as they eased him up and rearranged the pillows behind him. It was odd; somehow Aramis had developed four hands! It was then that he recognised his surroundings. He was in Aramis' bed and room, struggling to remember why when some unpleasant memories began to surface with the throbbing on the left side of his head. He raised a hand to his temple, his fingers finding the bandage tightly wound there.

A cup was pressed against his lips and he sipped at the cold water that slipped refreshingly down his throat.

"How's the head?" Porthos asked as he set down the cup on the floor.

Ah, the owner of the extra pair of hands was revealed!

D'Artagnan thought for a moment as memory came back. "Much better; there's just a dull ache."

"That's good to hear," Aramis commented. "I have more draught to kill the pain should you need it. Don't be too proud to ask."

"I won't," d'Artagnan agreed a little too readily. "How long have I been unconscious?"

Aramis settled down on the side of the bed. "You've been drifting in and out of awareness since late morning. Do you not remember waking at other points?"

D'Artagnan paused. "I think so." He looked around the room but it was quickly obvious that one of their number was absent. "Where's Athos? I vaguely remember him speaking to me at one point."

"That's good; that was when you were first brought back here. He waited until he was sure that you were not seriously hurt and you spoke with him; then he and Tréville left for the Chatelet. They wanted to pursue their line of investigation."

The expression on d'Artagnan's face immediately turned to one of concern as he thought of them leaving the limited sanctuary afforded by the garrison for the dangerous Paris streets and Aramis sought to put his mind at rest.

"They left here with an escort of ten. If four assailants were prepared to take on six of you, they hoped that sheer numbers would deter another attack," Aramis explained.

"What about the others who were with me?" d'Artagnan asked softly. It was necessary to ask but he was convinced that he probably did not want to hear the answer. His eyes drifted shut as he awaited the answer but it had more to do with attempting to mask his reaction that setting up a barrier to the discomfort.

Porthos and Aramis exchanged wary glances and then the big musketeer revealed the extent of the tragedy that had unfolded in the streets not far from the garrison that morning. "The two who came back with the cart are fine but the other three all died."

D'Artagnan's eyes opened abruptly. "I was the only one out there who survived?"

It did not seem possible. Three men had fallen at his side and he did not even remember it happening.

"Why am I the only one?"

Gradually, the two older musketeers filled in what they knew so that d'Artagnan understood the events that had unfolded earlier and they repeated what he had told Athos when he regained consciousness the first time. Gently, they informed him of the damage done to the doublet of which he was so proud and reassured him that they – Athos included – had already resolved to pool their meagre resources to help in replacing the doublet. They watched the fleeting cloud of regret in his eyes before he swiftly recovered and drew in a deep, slow breath of decision.

"That will not be necessary, although I thank you all dearly for the intended gesture. How can I be upset about the damage to a piece of clothing when so many have lost their lives? We will come out of this one day and that symbol on my doublet will serve as a poignant reminder of the sacrifice made by the brothers who served alongside me." He held their gaze determinedly. "I just pray that no new names will be associated with that memory, least of all you two and Athos."

The three fell silent at the enormity of his words, the two older men humbled by his attitude and marvelling at the kind of man into which their youngest musketeer was maturing.

Porthos and Aramis concluded by explaining Athos' conviction regarding the ages of the dead musketeers and their link with the siege of La Rochelle and Île de Ré. Although it was a link that they fervently hoped was a wrong one, they knew it was the only reasonable lead they had and that without, they had no hope of catching the perpetrators unless actually in the process of attacking the regiment once more.

"Will you tell me what happened then?" d'Artagnan asked again, eager to understand what could possibly have initiated such horrific retribution. "It all seems to come back to that and I need to know why."

Porthos headed towards the door, "I don't think now is the right time for a lengthy history lesson. Athos and Tréville would probably be the best ones at telling it anyway but Aramis can begin whilst I go and get us all some food. I expect Serge will have kept something hot for us. Besides, I want to find out if there's any news on Athos and the others yet."

The other two waited quietly until the door had closed behind the big man.

"Has he any good reason to be worried?" d'Artagnan asked anxiously.

"We _all_ have good reason to be worried at present – well, most of us do – but I am sure the group that is currently out will be fine. There are plenty of them," Aramis answered, trying to allay d'Artagnan's fears by his convivial tone but immediately realising that he had failed when he could not even convince himself and the expression on the young man's face was unaltered. He sighed. "Events have taken over us of late, no matter what we do. Athos thought that he had got every eventuality suitably covered with man power but that attack on you this morning, your injury and the deaths of three more musketeers proved otherwise. He was very upset and blames himself."

"What for? He is not responsible!" interjected d'Artagan.

"Yes, but you know what he's like. He has taken it personally that he was unable to protect all of you. They were his ideas, his strategies to safeguard the men of this regiment and they were quickly found wanting. Nothing we say will shake him of that belief."

D'Artagnan made to object again but Aramis hurried on regardless.

"No, Porthos also worries because of the lack of sleep and food Athos has had. I am not at all sure if he has closed his eyes for three days. He spent two nights fire fighting; then there was all that time at the palace before reading over documents with Tréville all of last night. We have managed to grab some sleep between duties. I know Porthos' snoring was not conducive yesterday to an unbroken night but we were comfortable and resting at the very least. The pair of them will be asleep on their feet if they are not careful."

"We do know Athos functions on very little sleep," d'Artagnan added, trying to be helpful and making light of their friend's erratic sleeping patterns.

"Yes but not without it entirely; no man is capable of that. Before long, he won't be thinking straight and he needs a clear head for analysing whatever it is that he's discovering and for the meetings with the King. I dare say that Rochefort is not going to make life easy for him or Tréville over the coming days."

There was a long pause before d'Artagnan asked the question that had been on his mind for far too long. "Do you think Rochefort has anything to do with these attacks?"

In turn, Aramis thought long and hard before replying. "I don't think so; I don't believe that it's his style, at least not with the repeated attacks. Now that Athos has recognised the symbol, the link with Saint Martin de Ré seems so painfully obvious and Rochefort wasn't there. Richelieu was at La Rochelle." He groaned. "After what this regiment went through just over five months ago with Richelieu and Delacroix, we could have done without this. We had just about recruited enough men to replace the ones we lost then and now we have to start again. We are in danger of becoming a young, woefully inexperienced regiment. Heaven save us from a wider threat in that event!"

"Such as what?" d'Artagnan queried. "War with Spain? The rumblings seem to be growing louder on that front." D'Artagnan watched his friend sitting thoughtfully and sought to lighten the mood. "Anyway, how could the musketeers be a regiment of raw recruits with old timers like Athos, Porthos and your good self leading the way?"

His plan worked and Aramis deigned to smile. "Cheeky young scoundrel! I'd make you pay for that comment were it not for your head injury!"

The door opened and Porthos returned carrying a tray. As he balanced its weight precariously on one hand, he set about handing over bowls of a thick chicken stew to the others before placing the tray on the floor and pouring out wine in a cup for Aramis. D'Artagnan looked at him expectantly.

"Water for you," Aramis ordered, "especially after your last comment."

"And what comment might that be?" Porthos queried as he handed a cup of water to the injured man.

"He was casting aspersions on our ages, suggesting that we are past it!" Aramis explained. Before d'Artagnan had the chance to defend himself, Aramis continued. "Anything heard about the others yet?"

Porthos shook his head. "No, they haven't returned. Surely they can't have been at the Chatelet all this time?"

Aramis shrugged. "Could be, especially if they've been through records, spoken to jailors and seen the need to question some of the prisoners. I don't know how many from La Rochelle and Île de Ré are being kept there but there have to be some."

"'Ow much 'ave you explained about what 'appened?" Porthos asked as he settled on his straw mattress, back against the wall and hungrily attacked his stew.

"Nothing yet," Aramis admitted. "We were side-tracked discussing other things. What do you know of the Huguenot rebellions, d'Artagnan?"

"Not a lot if I'm honest," the younger man admitted. "We heard vague news down in Gascony, of course, but if it didn't directly affect us or the farm, we took little interest in it. I certainly didn't anyway."

"In brief," Aramis began, "The Edict of Nantes was signed back in 1598, by King Henry IV, Louis' father. It granted the Huguenots – the Calvanist Protestants of France - substantial rights in the nation, including land. This was a major agreement considering that France was essentially Catholic. La Rochelle became their stronghold, even having its own governance and it was most certainly the centre of the Huguenot sea power as it had an important port. At about this time, La Rochelle was the second or third largest city in the country – I'm not sure which – but it probably had over thirty thousand inhabitants."

D'Artagnan let out an appreciative whistle. "That is big."

"It also rapidly became the strongest centre of resistance against the central government here in Paris," Aramis continued. "Then, when Henry was assassinated in 1610, we went into a period of regency."

"Yeah, under the wonderful Marie de' Medici; Louis only bein' nine at the time," Porthos added. "You met 'er. Lovely woman; full of carin' an' consideration for 'er son."

The three men gave vent to laughter as they remembered their first and last encounter with the mother of the King of France the previous year. Porthos' description of her could not have been further from the truth.

"Anyway, she tried to lead the country into a return to strong Catholic politics, thereby weakening the position of the Huguenots. The Duke Henri de Rohan and his brother Soubise started to organise resistance and trouble and it spread into full-scale rebellion, that first one being back in 1621," Aramis went on.

He stopped, watching d'Artagnan as the young man's eyes began to close.

"See, your 'istory lesson is borin' 'im to tears," Porthos scolded. "He's droppin' off!"

" _He_ , as you put it, is actually very interested," d'Artagnan insisted. "It's just that my eyes won't obey me."

"We don't want to overtire you," Aramis declared, taking the half-full bowl from d'Artagnan's hand before he dropped it. "The story will keep for another day and Athos will be around to help in the telling of it."

"I do so want to find out what he did that was so brave," d'Artagnan murmured, sleep once more beginning to claim him.

"And he will tell you," Aramis assured him.

"But why won't you tell me?"

"Because he was so stupid in what he did! I could not believe it then nor can I now when I think of it but he took an enormously unnecessary risk and could very easily have died," Aramis announced bluntly.

D'Artagnan struggled to open his eyes in surprise at the tone. "You resent him being brave?"

"Of course not. He is one of the bravest men I know," Aramis continued.

Porthos cleared his throat and caught Aramis' eye.

"I said _one_ of the bravest," Aramis repeated in mock hurt. "That's as well as you … and d'Artagnan here … and me!" He grew serious again. "But I admit it was a very long time before I could forgive him for his reckless volunteering. He knows I won't give his story a fair telling. For days, I thought him dead." He fell silent at the memory, obviously a painful one.

"He did save the day though," Porthos added softly. "If he 'adn't done what 'e did …" He let the words trail away.

"I know," Aramis attempted to smile. "The outcome of events on the Île de Ré would have been very different. Who knows," and he attempted to inject some levity into the mood of the room, "the Duke of Buckingham and the English might have won!"

"You can't leave it like that. I want to know more!" d'Artagnan insisted.

"Not tonight; you must rest. It is a long, hard time but it wasn't all bad," he added. D'Artagnan gazed at him in open-mouthed amazement. "It wasn't!" he proclaimed. "It brought us three closer together for a start." He was referring to Athos, Porthos and himself.

"Yeah," Porthos reluctantly agreed, "but when I think of that time, all I remember is bein' scared of catchin' whatever was sweeping the English camps, bein' cold a lot of the time, uncomfortable and 'avin' nowhere near enough to eat."

"Trust you to be thinking of your stomach," Aramis chastised gently.

"Well if I remember correctly, you an' Athos were tryin' hard to keep your shirts on 'cos the one time I caught the pair of you without' em, I could 'ave passed the time by countin' your ribs," Porthos retorted.

"I was hardly that bad," Aramis objected. "Anyway, Athos was a shadow of his former self as well."

"I think most of us were for a while," Porthos corrected.

"And then to keep us entertained, we were striving to keep Delacroix off Athos' back," Aramis continued.

"I remember you saying he was around then," d'Artagnan said.

"Well, we certainly found out a few things about each other," Porthos began, cryptically. "I hate to say this, d'Artagnan, but your mentor and hero isn't quite what you expect him to be."

"How so?" d'Artagnan was intrigued.

"An _Inseparable_ Athos might be but indomitable he definitely isn't," Aramis declared.

D'Artagnan's face lit up at the prospect of what he was about to discover. "Go on," he urged.

Aramis snorted in his amusement. "He is not the image of perfection that you hold dear, I'm afraid."

"Even Athos has his little weaknesses an' they're not the ones we all know about now," Porthos said, grinning at how animated and wide awake d'Artagnan had suddenly become.

"Little?" Aramis exclaimed in disbelief as memory loomed large.

"Tell me!" d'Artagnan insisted.

"Ah ….. That really is a story for another day!" and Aramis could not continue for the helpless laughter that consumed him.

 _ **A/N Fortunately for me, the reckless yet incredibly brave act performed by Athos really did happen and, even more fortuitously, I have been unable to find a name ascribed to the person actually responsible! I will say no more at this time!**_


	14. Chapter 14

_**A/N Many thanks for the feedback, especially to the guests because I can't contact you separately. I love to hear from you all.**_

 _ **Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan take 'centre-stage' in this chapter as they continue to discuss events. D'Artagnan is desperate to know about La Rochelle but finding out what he wants to know is not so easy!**_

 _ **Next chapter sees the time and place shift from Paris in 1627 to La Rochelle!**_

CHAPTER 14

"Porthos! Porthos, wake up."

Porthos opened one eye to find Aramis crouching at his side, one hand upon his shoulder as he sought to gently shake him awake.

"They're back," Aramis whispered by way of explanation. "I've just heard them ride into the yard. Let's go and find out what has kept them."

Porthos yawned widely. "What time is it?" He took the boots that Aramis pushed in his direction and struggled to pull on the first one until he realised that he was endeavouring to put it on the wrong foot. He revised his plan and sorted himself and his boots as Aramis threw his doublet at him before heading towards the door.

"It must be after ten o'clock. You've been asleep for nearly an hour,"

"What about d'Artagnan?" he hissed, indicating the bed and its occupant with a nod of his head.

"He's fine and sound asleep; he'll never notice we've gone," Aramis insisted, gesticulating wildly. "Come on; I want to hear what Athos has to say."

Together they crept from the room and out into the yard where the last horses of the returning men were being led away by soldiers who had opted to stay around for just that task. It was further evidence of the close bond within the regiment and how they had closed ranks upon that part of the world that railed against them. They visibly supported each other during this taxing time, even if that meant merely tending the mounts of tired men at the end of a long and potentially frustrating day. It was, without doubt, much appreciated.

Entering the warmth of the mess hall, Aramis and Porthos looked around quickly at the men gathered there. A number of those who had eaten earlier in the evening remained, using the area as a social space to talk quietly between themselves as they, too, awaited the return of the large group that had been at the Chatelet. Part of their reasoning was a natural curiosity to find out what had happened but there was also the underlying anxiety that so many men had left the garrison in the early afternoon and they wanted to be reassured that all of them had returned unharmed. Serge and a kitchen helper were piling food into bowls for the newcomers who queued in a silent, orderly fashion before sitting amongst those eager to hear their news.

Porthos nudged Aramis and indicated to where Tréville and Athos sat together at a table near the fire. In all truth, Tréville was sitting, his left elbow on the table as his hand cupped his cheek in support. His face was grey with exhaustion as he toyed with the food in front of him, the spoon pushing at the bowl's contents but rarely raising any to his mouth.

Athos, on the other hand, had folded his arms in front of him on the rough, wooden table top and used them to cushion his head, face obscured, whilst his food bowl stood to one side, cooling and neglected.

"Asleep," Tréville said succinctly, nodding towards the younger musketeer as Aramis and Porths approached. "Soon as he sat down; never even ate a mouthful. Get him to his bed and we'll talk in the morning."

Aramis tried lightly shaking the sleeping man and repeatedly saying his name, softly at first and then more loudly. There was no response.

"My turn," Porthos announced determinedly, moving Aramis aside to stand directly behind Athos as he slid his hands under the other man's armpits and pulled him into an upright sitting position.

Athos' eyes reluctantly opened and he blinked owlishly in confusion.

"Come on, sleepyhead," Porthos cajoled him. "Time for bed and no arguments." He hauled the shorter musketeer to his feet, pulling one arm around his own neck and supporting the exhausted man around the waist even as Athos made to object.

"Wait! I have to check the graves and the coffins and get everything sorted for the funerals tomorrow and …" His voice faltered as he tried to remember what else was urgent on his list of things to be accomplished.

"You're really goin' to able to see the graves at this time of night," Porthos grumbled. "Way you're goin', you're more likely to fall in one an' stay there. We'll all be arrivin' for the ceremony tomorrow an' find you occupyin' one, all curled up an' fast asleep."

"All done," Aramis reassured him. "You've nothing to worry about, either of you," and he looked to include Tréville as well. "Whilst Porthos sat with d'Artagnan this afternoon, I went to see the teams digging the graves. They've taken care and done a good job. The coffins were all completed and transferred to where we were storing the bodies. Several of us had a quiet moment before placing them in the coffins and securing the lids; they're all marked so we know who's who. I didn't even have to ask if any soldiers were prepared to mount a vigil; the men had already got themselves sorted. Eight have taken the first watch with two more groups set to take over at one and four o'clock."

"That's good," Tréville said, his voice hoarse.

Athos likewise nodded his approval and swayed unsteadily on his feet, Porthos holding him upright.

"Get him out of here," Tréville went on gruffly. "I don't want to see him until breakfast tomorrow."

"You won't," Aramis reassured him and then hesitated as he pondered a question that he longed to ask.

"Did you find out anything of use at the Chatelet? You were all gone such a long time."

Tréville nodded affirmatively. "It turns out two significant Huguenots have been released in the last month because of clemency, with several more about to conclude their sentences. Fair or not, we need to get the King to overrule those for the foreseeable future. We spoke with many of them still being held there, some of whom are filled with enough vitriol to seek some form of vengeance but that would not necessarily be targeted solely towards musketeers.

"Athos and I have begun to separate them as to whether or not they were at La Rochelle or Île de Ré. We also garnered some reluctant information on secret Protestant cells still meeting within the city and we'll start investigating those properly after our meeting with the King tomorrow afternoon. It will be interesting to see whether or not he has any names to propose. After that, Aramis, I shall want you to have that meeting with Mazarin."

Athos sagged next to Porthos who altered his hold to keep the other man on his feet.

"Go, all of you," Tréville insisted, waving his hand dismissively.

They made slow progress back to Aramis' room.

"You know something'?" Porthos began. "It's easier getting' him to move when he's roaring drunk." They halted as Athos staggered slightly and waited for him to regain his balance. Aramis had come to the other side of him and was helping as best he could.

"And what makes you say that?" he said, huffing breathlessly.

"I can shout and threaten 'im an' if he doesn't take any notice, I can knock 'im out, throw 'im over my shoulder an' carry 'im the rest of the way," Porthos explained.

"Don't even think about it," came the slurred words from the man trying to walk between them.

"He sounds drunk with tiredness. You could always be mistaken," Aramis suggested. "I would back you up for I can see just how such an error could be made."

When there was nothing more than an objecting growl to be heard, the two men laughed and attempted to persuade their friend to pick up speed.

It was not much longer before they reached Aramis' room, the one they all now shared. It was impossible to be quiet as they entered and d'Artagnan quickly awoke and pushed himself up on his elbows to determine what all the fuss was about.

"Is he alright?" he asked anxiously as Porthos held Athos upright and Aramis divested him of weapons, belts and doublet.

"He's fine – or he will be when he's had a good night's sleep. He's almost out on his feet," Aramis explained as, between them, they lowered Athos onto the mattress closest to the bed and pulled off his boots. All three watched in amazement as he gave a huge yawn, settled back on the pillow and was immediately asleep. Porthos picked up a blanket and threw it over the still form.

"I don't think I've ever seen him go to sleep that quickly!" d'Artagnan breathed in astonishment.

"It happens," Aramis said matter-of-factly. "Now I suggest we all settle down and do likewise."

…

The next morning, the three of them were the first to wake and, resolved to leave Athos sleeping for as long as possible, they dressed as quickly and quietly as they dared before slipping out into the warm morning air to perform their ablutions in the water trough.

Porthos and d'Artagnan sank onto the benches at their usual table whilst Aramis went off in search of food for them.

"How's the head?" Porthos asked.

"Fine," d'Artagnan assured him with a smile. "I have no headache this morning and Aramis has said he will change the dressing later. Maybe I won't need this very visible bandage."

They sat in companionable silence until Porthos spoke. "We'll leave Athos until the last possible minute; unless he wakes up of 'is own accord first, that is. Lookin' at 'im this mornin', it doesn't look like 'e moved at all in the night."

"I'm not surprised. He was drained yesterday evening."

D'Artagnan thought about the conversations of the previous day and knew he had to take advantage of sitting alone with the big man for Aramis' reaction when they had spoken of Athos' courage on the Île de Ré had taken him by surprise.

"Porthos, I was thinking about what the two of you told me yesterday. Aramis seems very upset by Athos' action and I don't understand why. If he was so brave and things could have ended differently …"

"That's just it; things could've ended _very_ differently," Porthos interrupted. "I know there's so much you want to know an' we will tell you but it's a long story. As to what Athos did, I won't defy Aramis an' tell you. If 'e says it's got to come from Athos himself, then so be it."

"But what if Athos won't tell me either?"

Porthos paused. "Then I'll rethink it." He sighed. "It's not _what_ Athos; it was the _way_ he did it that bothers Aramis."

D'Artagnan watched, perplexed.

"You've got to understand what it was like back then, between the three of us. Athos had been a musketeer for a little over two years an', in the early weeks or months even – he was very much a loner. Delacroix started on 'im almost from the day 'e arrived and Tréville took Aramis an' me to one side and asked us to keep an eye on 'im. That was easier said than done! If you think he's awkward now an' keeps things close to his chest, it's nothin' to what 'e was like back then. He's mellowed a lot!"

D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow, finding the description hard to believe and Porthos snorted at his response.

"He drank more then an' was generally a morose drunk but at times 'e could be belligerent, pickin' fights, almost as if he was hopin' he'd lose to someone one day. He tried that with me more than once but I could see 'e wasn't really meanin' it. He was so troubled. Of course, we know now what it was all about - Milady, Pinon and his brother - but at the time 'e was givin' very little away. We knew there'd been a woman an' that she'd died. Where, how an' why, he never said. Likewise the brother but he never gave us any details. Aramis and I used to talk about it and we knew there had to be a whole lot more but we don't know to this day just 'ow much Tréville knew an' he certainly wasn't tellin'. He just kept on at us to take 'im under our wings, so to speak.

"You can imagine how easy that was," he added ruefully and d'Artagnan smiled, not daring to say anything in case an interruption brought the anecdote to a halt. Everything that he gleaned about the lives of his three friends before he knew them was precious.

"Anyway, we didn't give up; you know how Aramis likes a challenge. We thought we were getting' somewhere; we were friends but 'e was still holdin' back a lot. Then we ended up on the Île de Ré." He frowned, eyes staring off into the distance as though lost in the events of that year.

"After a while the governor announced 'e was lookin' for three volunteers. We 'ad no idea what was goin' on in Athos' head until we couldn't find 'im. We searched the citadel at Saint Martin until we came across Tréville an' asked if he 'ad seen 'im. We knew from his reaction it wasn't good. He had no idea Athos 'adn't told us he'd gone an' volunteered. He was wonderin' why we hadn't shown up when Athos left but then thought we'd said our own goodbyes separately."

"Athos never said goodbye?"

Porthos shook his head.

"I expect he thought you'd try to talk him out of whatever it was."

Porthos looked at d'Artagnan in astonishment. "Too right we would've done! It was a suicide mission. Three men left an' two of 'em died, their bodies were never found. We thought 'e was dead too. It was days before we found out otherwise. Aramis was beside 'imself. We'd only just got over losin' Athos a little while before when he'd gone missin'."

"You lost him twice?" d'Artagnan was incredulous.

"Well we didn't do it deliberately!" Porthos objected. "When we saw 'im at last after that second time an' heard all about what he'd done … I was close to killin' 'im myself for the scare he'd given us. It took Aramis a long while to get over it; he just kept thinkin' about Savoy an' the friends he lost there. It was too much to think of losin' another. We'd already lost other comrades in the fightin' that was goin' on. Aramis couldn't help but wonder if Athos'd taken the stupid risk in the hope he wouldn't come back."

"And that's why none of you talk of it?" d'Artagnan asked in a whisper.

Porthos shrugged. "I suppose so. We both made it clear to Athos what it'd done to us, how it made us feel an' he rightly felt bad about it. He was our friend, our brother; he'd actually started to open up more to us on that mission than ever before an' we thought we were beginnin' to understand 'im. Mind you, I know now I'll never fully understand him. Just when I think I do, he does somethin' crazy like at PInon.

"When we thought he was dead, we realised 'ow much he'd come to mean to us. When 'e saw how much he'd hurt us, that sent 'im on another guilt trip. So," and here he shrugged again, "none of us talk about it – too many painful memories."

They sat in silence as d'Artagnan absorbed what he'd heard.

Porthos suddenly grinned and his eyes lit up. "'E was damned brave though – even if 'e was an idiot!"

…

It was early evening when Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan made their way up the stairs and along to the office to where Tréville and Athos had been ensconced since they returned from the palace after their meeting with the King. Neither had been forthcoming as yet about the discussion that had transpired then. The three carried trays of food and drink, enough for the five of them for they were on a mission.

They knocked on the door and prepared to wait but the invitation – if the snapped order could be construed as such – was immediate so they entered to discover organised chaos. Tréville sat at the desk surrounded by a plethora of papers and parchments whilst Athos sat on the floor with similar piles around him. Paper was balanced on a book in his lap, a quill pen in his hand and a bottle of ink by his side as he studiously made notes from what he was looking at and additional comments dictated by Tréville whenever he found anything of worth. The two looked up from their work as the newcomers entered, set the trays on a chest and began serving the food.

"We have come to you because we want to ensure that you eat but also because we want to offer our help," Aramis explained, passing the two men bowls and utensils.

"Also, the mood in the mess hall is understandably subdued," d'Artagnan said. The morning's mass funeral had been nothing short of traumatic for all the men, serving as it did to remind them of the fickleness of mortality and the fact that there were people in Paris hell-bent on their destruction. The regiment was very nervous and there were worrying signs of emergent anger; the situation would have to be carefully monitored to avoid serious repercussions.

"Did you learn anything of interest?" Porthos asked as they settled around the room on chairs, window ledge and floor eating a meal.

Tréville answered. "The King had done his part in preparation for the meeting and had compiled a list of names which we are cross-referencing with regimental documents. He has also sent to the English court to see if they can verify the continued presence of leading Huguenots who fled to the country after the siege of La Rochelle was over. We'll look at them after we've eaten."

The four older men chatted amicably during the meal and failed to realise that d'Artagnan was sitting quietly, watching and listening to all that they said, including occasional references to the Huguenot rebellion.

When he saw that they had eaten their fill and were contentedly sipping at cups of wine, he spoke up, determined that they were not going to avoid the issue and put him off any longer.

"Right, I'm ready to hear all about the siege of La Rochelle and the Île de Ré. I need to understand what is going on."


	15. Chapter 15

**_A/N First, an apology for a short, rushed and, in my mind, totally unsatisfactory chapter but I had promised to post one and did not want to let you down. However, I deliberately curtailed it as I did not want to post a longer, weaker chapter as a result. Work has been manic for the past couple of days, not helped by a first rehearsal last night as I have (madly) auditioned for and got a part in another play! It's meant working into the early hours, hence this chapter went onto the 'back burner'. I did not want to bog you down with too much history but with the first rebellion being explained in the previous chapter, you needed a very succinct outline of the second so that now, in 1627, the crux of the story begins. Please forgive me!_**

CHAPTER 15

Amused by d'Artagnan's persistence, Tréville leaned back in his chair and indicated with a sweeping gesture that the three original _Inseparables_ were the ones who should take up the tale.

It was Aramis, though, who shook his head at the man whom he still regarded as his superior officer, as well as a friend.

"Don't think you are getting off that lightly. There are plenty of parts in the story where you are best suited to fill in any gaps. Porthos and I have already established that his knowledge is very limited on the subject when we started to explain what happened in 1621 last night."

"You went as far back as that?" Athos raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"Of course we did!" Aramis objected. "I will not have it said that we are not thorough in the education of our young musketeer. Anyway, he wants all the details so what kind of friend would I be if I shirked my responsibility in making him aware of all that had transpired?"

Athos did not look convinced so d'Artagnan leaped to the marksman's defence.

"Of course I want to know all about it; if I am to understand fully what lies behind the attacks on my fellow musketeers – and me, for that matter – then I need to know everything," he insisted.

All eyes turned to Athos in the expectation that he would begin. He cleared his throat and started his lesson; the details easily coming to mind even though he had not been involved in the earlier conflicts.

"That first rebellion had been spearheaded by two brothers, the Duke Henri de Rohan and his brother Soubise. It's about the latter that the King has contacted the English; Soubise headed across the sea to England much later after the fall of La Rochelle. Louis is keen to know if he is still there or whether he has slipped back onto French soil to stir up religious dissent again. Anyway, in 1621 Louis led a victorious campaign, besieging and capturing a place called Saint-Jean d'Angély …"

D'Artagnan let out a low whistle of wonder. "Louis did that? I can't imagine him getting himself involved at that level, let alone being successful. How old must he have been?"

"Younger than you," Tréville defended the monarch. "He was about twenty. You must not underestimate the King, d'Artagnan. I know he can be exceedingly annoying and behaves very immaturely at times but his political prowess and strategy is not to be completely ignored."

"Pity 'e's not like that a bit more often then," Porthos interrupted, "like when it comes to what he did to you." He held Tréville's gaze for a moment as he made reference to what he and many considered to be the monarch's unjustified ill-treatment of the officer.

"The Huguenots were very problematic," Tréville went on, "and put up strong resistance. An attempt to blockade La Rochelle even then ended with a stalemate the following year but at least it led to another treaty."

"Which was that one?" Aramis asked, taking the opportunity to clarify events in his own mind.

"That one was at Montpellier," Athos added, "but that didn't stop Rohan and Soubise taking up arms again in 1625. In the February, Soubise attacked and seized the Île de Ré with only four hundred men."

"And one hundred of those were sailors," Tréville added.

It was Porthos who was the one to express disbelief when he shook his head. "That's incredible when you think how many men were involved less than two years later; there were thousands then and heavy losses on both sides."

"But we didn't lose as many as the English," Aramis said, a certain pride evident in his voice.

"So the Huguenots held the island then?" d'Artagnan wanted to make sure that he was following the story.

"Yes but not for long," Athos explained. "They occupied the island of Oléron as well as Ré but Saint Martin was besieged by Louis and, to cut a long story short, he recovered the island. Following that conflict he was determined that the Huguenots were going to be subdued."

"And our friend the Cardinal Richelieu made a very strong declaration that the suppression of any Huguenot revolt was the first priority of the kingdom," Tréville added.

"No wonder they were intent on rebelling again," d'Artagnan said, "nor that they are apparently seeking retribution for what has happened."

"You defending them?" Porthos demanded, his face darkening.

"Of course not," the young man said.

Athos attempted to pour oil on the emerging troubled water. "Things were not helped by the involvement of the English. Relationships with the island nation had been strained for several years but that's another story. Part of the attempt to improve it was when Louis' sister, Henrietta Maria, married Charles, King of England."

"But isn't she a Catholic and the English King a Protestant?" d'Artagnan asked, puzzled.

Athos nodded. "More complications! The English began to get involved the year before we were at La Rochelle. There was an attempt to contact dissident French noblemen to encourage a rebellion which initiated the third revolt led by our two favourite and very busy brothers, Rohan and Soubise."

"They were going to send an English fleet to encourage rebellion, weren't they?" Aramis asked.

"Yes," Tréville answered. "Ironic really when we had used English ships to take back Ré in twenty-five."

"And that's where the English Duke of Buckingham comes into the story?" d'Artagnan asked eagerly. "I've heard about him."

Tréville and Athos exchanged a meaningful glance that was lost on the other three.

"Oh yes," Athos sighed, "that's when George Villiers, first Duke of Buckingham makes his grand entrance."

 ** _Paris, 1627_**

Louis was apoplectic with rage. He strode backwards and forwards in the library, shouting incomplete sentences and issuing a string of dire threats as to what he intended to do with all the English and the Huguenots put together.

Tréville listened, his face expressionless as the tirade continued unabated. He had grown used to these outbursts, especially since Richelieu and a large contingent of French forces had already left for La Rochelle.

Suddenly, Louis halted in his pacing and turned on the captain of his regiment.

"I will not sit here waiting for messages from the conflict. I want to see it first-hand. Get organised, Tréville. I intend to leave for La Rochelle in two days and the Musketeer regiment will escort me."


	16. Chapter 16

_**A/N Many thanks to those regulars and guests who responded after the last chapter; I was not happy with it and resolved that evening never to upload a chapter because I did not want to let you down. Your continued enjoyment is paramount and I have no doubt that, despite an initial disappointment, you would be happier getting a better written offering.**_

 _ **So I hope this chapter, longer than usual, makes up for that. Treville has bought a little more time than the two days Louis gave for their departure. Our intrepid trio (remember d'Artagnan is not with them now but listening to their story) do get into a lot of trouble but I love how Dumas writes them as being lovable rogues at times and I could not help wondering how Treville 'coped' with them in the early days and how the relationship between the four men began to evolve into more of what we see in the series. I have therefore given Treville a different Lieutenant (my creation - he will appear more often over the chapters) as the Captain tries to bring the trio 'to heel'.**_

 _ **My thanks to a friend whose birthday present to me last week was the book 'The Four Musketeers: the True Story of d'Atagnan, Porthos, Aramis and Athos.' I have spent many a happy hour delving into it this weekend and it could not have arrived at a more appropriate moment for some of the information I have found within its pages.**_

 _ **So the boys are about to learn a salutary lesson. The 1627 event to which I refer and the men involved are all true, as are the details appertaining to Richelieu's brother and Henri IV. Men of the Musketeer regiment were, indeed, ordered to be the guard detail on that occasion.**_

 **CHAPTER 16** _**Paris, June 1627**_

It was a further two hours before Louis' ire had waned sufficiently that Tréville felt it safe enough to leave the palace. As much as he hated Richelieu, he had to reluctantly acknowledge that the Cardinal knew just how to manage the King when he was at his most truculent. Tréville never attempted to hide the fact that he hated court intrigue and politics and never believed himself skilled in the machinations of diplomacy – he mostly kept his men in check through authority and the respect that he engendered - but even he had to admit that he had surpassed himself that afternoon and was leaving for the garrison relieved that he had bought the regiment some time.

It was, however, not without cost and it had tarnished the measure of success he had achieved. He was not looking forward to the news he would have to impart to his musketeers, nor the role they were to play the following morning.

It had taken time to placate the monarch and convince him of the recklessness of moving in haste. Since word had first arrived in Paris that the Huguenots were once more expressing their angst and unrest was clearly fomenting both in La Rochelle and the surrounding area, Tréville had been preparing his men, anticipating that they would be expected to move to the south west. Louis had never been content to watch events unfolding from the sanctuary of Paris and had refused to take into consideration Richelieu's concerns expressed prior to his departure from the city to command the King's forces; namely that there was, as yet, no heir to the French throne. Despite having been making provision for an imminent departure for nearly three weeks, Tréville still needed more than two days to finally have his men ready for a departure for an indefinite period. He had at last persuaded the King to delay leaving the city for a week but there was a frightening amount still to be achieved in that time.

Riding back to the garrison with his lieutenant, Savatier, by his side and followed by the musketeers who had been replaced as the palace guard detail, Tréville was distracted as he continued to make mental lists of things that still needed completing. His heart sank with the realisation that a serious infusion of money was necessary to fulfil his plans within seven days and he doubted if the King, in his present mood, would generously cushion the financial shortfall. He would, out of necessity, approach the King on the matter in the next couple of days but, in the meantime, that meant that he would probably have to find the funds himself in the first instance and he wondered if his savings would be enough. He was still mulling over the economic situation when he heard his name being shouted and saw a musketeer riding through the street towards him as quickly as was safe for the people milling about in the area.

Harman reined to an abrupt halt before the Captain, blocking his path.

"Begging your pardon, Captain," the man said breathlessly.

"What is it, man?" Tréville barked, his own patience now within a hair's breadth of expiring given all that he had endured in the King's presence.

"We've had word that musketeers are planning to duel with Red Guards in the Pré-aux-Clercs."1 The man looked worriedly at his commanding officer and was rewarded for his unwelcome news by a muttered expletive.

"Who?" Tréville demanded, although he felt that he really did not want to know the answer as he had his suspicions. When Harman sheepishly lowered his eyes and tried to avoid answering, the Captain swore again, his supposition confirmed.

He spurred his horse into action and rode out to the meadow just in time to see three of his men confronting five members of Richelieu's Red Guard, part of the skeleton numbers remaining behind in the city, the remainder having accompanied the Cardinal.

They faced off against each other, two lines of men eyeing each other warily and yet with menace. The Musketeers had spaced themselves in the familiar pattern he had seen so often in the training yard and in battle: Athos was in the middle and slightly to the fore, weight evenly and lightly distributed as he stood poised, rapier in his right hand and main-gauche in his left. There was the frightening concentration, the face devoid of expression and his green eyes glaring coldly at the opposition. Porthos stood to his left, sword in one hand whilst the other beckoned in a mocking invitation towards the guards, daring them to approach with a grin that lacked any warmth. On the other side of Athos was Aramis, similarly armed and grimly determined.

Tréville could not decide whether the Red Guards were incredibly brave or utterly reckless, believing that they had the upper hand in their slightly greater number against the formidable trio. He had seen how they worked, how their strengths and skills balanced each other and how they were coming together as a fighting brotherhood in supporting and protecting each other.

It was on his instruction that Porthos and Aramis had initially attempted to befriend the newcomer to the garrison and it had taken time but their efforts had begun to have some positive results. What had rapidly become clear was his unarguable and impressive ability with a weapon that quickly established him as the finest swordsman in the regiment but his inner demons and penchant for drowning them in wine still imbued him with a dangerous unpredictability. That, along with Aramis' brashness and skill with a pistol further combined with Porthos' love of a fight, any fight, made the three a redoubtable force but it also meant that Tréville had his work cut out for him trying to rein them in. They were seldom likely to step back from a confrontation if truth and honour were at stake and he could not help but wonder what had precipitated this stand-off.

He did not have the time to find out as the Red Guard, frustrated with Porthos' taunting, began to move forward.

Kicking the flank of his mount, he swiftly rode between the two lines, standing in the stirrups, rapier held aloft in one hand as he roared, "Hold!"

His authority was without question and the eight men simultaneously stepped back, slowly and deliberately sheathing their weapons as they glared with unmitigated hostility at each other. The troop of musketeers that had accompanied the Captain rode to encircle the men, hands poised on the pommels of their own blades. There was no doubt that Tréville had intervened at a crucial moment; the animosity came off the men in waves and blood would have senselessly been spilled.

Tréville resumed his seat in the saddle and took a deep breath in the struggle to control his own temper. Now, of all the most inconvenient times, the three had decided to get themselves into trouble and he needed them in one piece for La Rochelle. Before they left for that destination though, the King had demanded that musketeers be present at a somewhat unsavoury duty for he had decided to teach all who would be tempted to duel a salutary lesson. If Louis were ever to hear of this latest fiasco, he did not know if he could protect his men.

"Get back to the palace," he ordered the guards and, when they hesitated, he bellowed. "Now! If you know what is good for you, you will remain silent about this debacle."

With a last look over their shoulders as they went, the disgruntled Red Guard left.

"You men, you are dismissed as well. Get back to the garrison," he said to those who had ridden with him. Savatier looked as if he was going to object but a nod of the head from his Captain had him pulling on the reins to turn his mount.

Tréville watched them leave before focusing his attention on his recalcitrant trio; there was no mistaking his fury as he dismounted and strode towards them where they stood to attention, eyes forward and never daring to look at him directly. He stood inches from each of them as he unleashed a tirade at them, one after another. As he fired a stream of rhetorical questions in their direction, they stood motionless, never once trying to offer an explanation until given leave to do so.

"What the hell were you doing? Have you gone mad? Have you forgotten that it is illegal to duel? There was yet another ban last year. Do you consider yourselves to be immune to an edict of the King? What possessed you? Three of you against five? And don't you dare try to tell me that the Red Guards are useless fighters and that the three of you could take on ten of them with one hand tied behind your backs."

He glowered at Aramis, challenging him to come back with an equally audacious retort. Then he moved to Porthos. "I need you on a battle field in the very near future and you are willing to risk your neck because you've had your feelings hurt by one of Richelieu's men. Perhaps they are the ones justified in their fury because you have been cheating yet again at cards!"

He rounded on Athos. "Or were you drunk? Picking fights once more with anyone who just happens to be around? Well, what is your excuse this time? I should have the three of you clapped in irons and thrown into the Chatelet to take your chances; only do not expect any clemency from the King. "

As quickly as his temper had flared, it expired and Tréville stood, breathing hard. They were fast becoming his best men and he had already coined a nickname for them, his _Inseparables,_ but they tried his patience to the limit and beyond. He had to make them understand the futility of their behaviour, the potential waste, especially when he needed every man he had right now. He saw the confusion pass between them and sighed deeply.

"What gave rise to this challenge?" he asked quietly, his fury expended.

"We had finished our morning duties and stopped to have a drink," Athos explained, his voice quiet but forceful. His eyes met those of his Captain. "One drink; that's all," he reiterated. "We were minding our own business when the Red Guard entered. We ignored them but they came over and began their jibes."

"And you just had to retaliate," Tréville muttered from between clenched teeth.

"We did not give in to their taunts," Aramis insisted indignantly and then added, "at first."

"And then what happened?"

"Well then they really started," Porthos added. "They picked 'oles in the regiment and our gettin' ready to go to La Rochelle, sayin' things like the Huguenots had nothin' to worry about if we were outside the walls."

"But we didn't react," said Aramis reassuringly.

"An' then they launched into the three of us with Athos' drinkin', Aramis bein' a womaniser and my background," Porthos went on, the indignation clear in his voice.

"But we still didn't react," Aramis asserted.

"So what _did_ make you react?" Tréville said, trying to maintain a calm demeanour. He watched them exchange glances that suggested an embarrassment. When they did not answer, he prompted them firmly. "Well?"

It was interesting to note that although Athos was the last of the three to gain his commission, the other two deferred to his leadership and looked to him now for guidance as to whether or not they should reveal their motivation.

"We refused to remain silent when their taunts and insults were directed at you. It was when they began to compare you unfavourably with Richelieu that we responded," Athos said matter-of-factly.

Tréville was aghast and had nothing to say for several moments. Running his hand through his hair, he composed himself at last. "So the three of you risked your lives to teach the Red Guard a lesson but were also prepared to face imminent imprisonment for duelling and all because they insulted me?" He was unable to conceal his surprise.

Aramis and Porthos nodded vehemently; Athos shrugged as if it were the most natural response in the world. It was clear that all three took it in their stride that they expected to defend the commander in the face of defamation.

Any remaining vestige of anger on Tréville's part drained away in an instant. "I thank you for your loyalty but I order you never to take such a risk again on my account. I appreciate what you were willing to do for me but I would not have you put yourselves in such jeopardy. You would be in serious trouble for duelling; no reason would find justification with His Majesty."

"But Louis always pardons nobles," Aramis argued. "He would listen to you defending us."

Tréville shook his head. He had to make them understand that the King had currently lost all patience with duellers, whoever they were, and he was sure Richelieu had had something to do with the King's new intransigence on the subject. He would have to shock his men into obeying the law for he could not tolerate the idea that he could lose them through their own recklessness, even though they believed that what they were doing was honourable and in his defence.

He took a deep breath. "Not any more. You will lead a troop of musketeers tomorrow to guard an execution outside the Louvre. It is to set an example and you are to arrest anyone who calls for mercy."

The three exchanged uncomfortable glances.

"Not Bouteville?" Athos asked at last.

"Yes, both the Comte and his second, Chapelles," Tréville answered abruptly.

Athos paled for he understood the significance of the pronouncement whilst Aramis gave a disbelieving gasp and Porthos swore.

"But the King pardons nobles for duelling," Aramis repeated.

"The King wants the sentence carried out. He will not have anyone duelling and intends to make an example of them," the Captain continued.

"They've been in prison for over a month with that sentence hanging over them and now the King decides a date for their execution?" Aramis still could not believe what he was hearing. "He has chosen to ignore the appeals from the aristocracy?"

Bouteville was well-known for his challenges and was reputed to have participated in at least twenty duels. His infamy had imbued him with a bizarre heroic quality but his last duel was to be his downfall. It had been a very public affair, unlike the more usual arrangements that saw the protagonists embarking on their risky encounters at daybreak far away from an audience or the potential for discovery. On this occasion, he was not even responsible for having issued the challenge; that had come from the Marquis de Montalet who had subsequently fled abroad. Their duel was scheduled in broad daylight at two o'clock in the afternoon and the designated venue was outside the Palais Royal, the residence of none other than Cardinal Richelieu.

"The appeals fell on deaf ears," Tréville explained. "I'm sure Richelieu had much to do with it. You all know about his brother?"

The three musketeers shook their heads; they were still trying to assimilate the news. They knew the illegality of duelling but they, along with all the other French men who engaged in the dangerous activity, knew the risks. It was a rite of passage, an expectation in the defence of honour. The previous year's ban was already the second such law in Louis' reign alone and his father, Henri, had also tried to enforce two similar laws but to little effect, his reign seeing the deaths of over four thousand Frenchmen in duels. The attitude towards duelling was clear: in the army it threatened discipline and on the streets it threatened public order.

What the three young men found hard to accept was the sudden change in Louis. In the past, news of such encounters had always fuelled royal pride and a sense of romanticism, hence Louis' readiness to pardon those members of the aristocracy engaging in the duels – until now. Knowing that Richelieu strongly opposed the activities also served to give the musketeers a frisson of pleasure, knowing they were consciously going against any standpoint held by the Cardinal.

"His older brother, Alphonse, the Marquis de Richelieu, was killed in a duel ten years ago," Tréville explained.

Porthos exhaled loudly and Aramis let out a low whistle before saying quietly, "No wonder he is so set against duelling."

"It's not just that," Tréville said, surprised at his own willingness to defend the Cardinal. "Above all things, he is concerned with maintaining royal rights and authority. In his mind, anything that allows an individual to take the law into his own hands – such as duelling – is against the crown and he will preserve that at all costs."

"How are they to be executed?" Athos asked.

"They will be beheaded and you will be amongst the group guarding the execution."

The three suddenly looked deflated.

Tréville sighed and, when he next spoke, his voice was softer, "Do you see why I do not want the three of you to duel? It is a waste of life; you are taking incalculable risks, especially now that Louis is making this example of Bouteville. I need you all with me in La Rochelle; you are amongst the best in the regiment and I cannot afford to lose you, not now. Do you understand?"

He waited for them to nod their silent acquiescence and his posture visibly relaxed. As their commanding officer, he was not supposed to have favourites so he could not explain to them the fondness he had already developed for the miscreants. The prospect of possibly losing them on a battlefield was bad enough in itself but to lose one or more of them (for where one duelled, the others would like as not act as his seconds) in a secluded meadow for a personal slight defied description.

"Let's get back to the garrison," he instructed. "We have much to do."

...

The following morning, he was waiting, leaning against the balustrade of his balcony as the detail assigned to guarding the execution returned. He had spent the intervening hours since they rode out wondering whether or not events were being conducted with a suitable level of dignity. Had he not had the pressing business of preparing a regiment for battle, he probably would have been expected to attend but he had been spared that spectacle. He had wondered how all the men were faring and whether or not they had been forced to make any arrests. Then he searched his memory for any similar occasion when his three errant musketeers might have witnessed a beheading; not that it was something to which any sane person could become accustomed.

He watched their body language as they rode in, heads bowed and hats pulled low to conceal their faces. They were the last to emerge from the stables having tended their mounts and he caught their eye as they looked up. Gesturing with his head, he summoned them up to the office. He was teaching them a hard yet valuable lesson because he wanted to save their sorry hides the only way he knew how.

He was already re-seated behind his desk when they knocked on the open door and filed into the room led, as always, by Athos. They lined up in front of him and stood to attention, their faces grim following what they had observed and Tréville hoped that his 'punishment' had been effective.

Somehow, he suspected that they would be back to their old ways in the future, although getting them out of Paris and on the road to La Rochelle would definitely hamper their opportunities to engage in such behaviour. They would be away from the Red Guard for a start and the three of them were intelligent enough to take a potential conflict with the Huguenots seriously; they would hardly be likely to heighten the danger in which they found themselves. With that in mind, Tréville suddenly found himself doubting his own wisdom. He was used to disciplining, encouraging, mentoring, leading and even consoling the men in his charge but these three young men had an unwavering ability to attract trouble. He was seldom able to pre-empt where the said trouble would strike – apart from that which arose naturally (and frequently) from Porthos' usual cheating when gambling, Aramis' penchant for womanising and upsetting the husbands of Paris and Athos' predilection for drinking himself into a state of insensibility.

"Bad?" he queried, trying to gauge their reaction to the executions.

"Bad," Porthos growled, unsure as to how to express his exact thoughts regarding what he had been forced to watch.

A large crowd had gathered and the musketeer force had been necessary to keep back those over-zealous in their desire to see the perpetrators face their judgement. Many had been shouting, baying for blood as the two condemned men had been brought out, blinking and squinting against the bright sunlight, the first they had seen since their incarceration and what was swiftly to become their last. Their clothing was torn and filthy, hair dirty and matted. Neither had been afforded the dignity of dressing according to their station; someone not knowing the identities of the convicted prisoners would be hard pressed to recognise one of them as a comte.

Some sympathisers and friends from the ranks of the nobility were there to offer support but it was done so in silence, none daring to speak aloud their objections for they knew of the King's threat and the presence of the musketeers stationed before the crowd only reinforced Louis' message.

"Did they …?" Tréville's voice trailed off, his question left incomplete.

"Die well?" Athos finished it for him. His expression gave nothing away as to how he was feeling but he sounded weary. "Yes, if any such death can be described as concluding well. Neither of them screamed, wept or begged forgiveness, if that's what you mean."

Tréville breathed an inward sigh of relief remembering the adage that, at the last, much could be said of a man depending upon how he left this life.

"Did you have to make any arrests?" he asked.

This time, it was Aramis who answered with a mere shake of the head.

Silence fell upon the room as the Captain gazed upon his men. They were, he thought, shaken to the core by the result of the King's change in attitude.

"Help yourselves," he ordered, indicating the four pewter cups of brandy on the desk in front of him. They looked slightly surprised, never having been invited to partake of the Captain's best brandy which they knew he kept secreted in the big cupboard against the side wall. Their hesitation was brief as Aramis stepped forward and passed the cups to his brothers.

Tréville took the last one for himself and, before they had a chance to raise the cups to their lips, he asked, "No more duels?"

There was a pause before their spokesman, Athos, gave voice to what they had discussed the previous evening. "We cannot promise but we will certainly endeavour to avoid them."

Tréville had to be satisfied with the answer. He understood well that their overriding sense of honour would not allow them to make a promise that they thought they would be unable to keep and, in his heart, he knew that he would probably act likewise given the circumstances. Their willingness to comply, at least, would have to suffice.

The Captain stood up. "Less than six days before we depart, gentlemen." He raised his cup. "To La Rochelle."

Three other cups were likewise raised in a toast and three voices chorused, "To La Rochelle."

Then the four men drained their cups, united by what was to come.

 ** _1 Mentioned by Dumas in 'The Three Muskeeteers as the place where Athos and d'Artagnan are to meet and duel when they first meet. There was a windowless chapel there for the Carmes-Déschaux, an order of Carmelite monks._**


	17. Chapter 17

**_A/N Many thanks for the comments on the last chapter. It was fun to write and I'm glad you enjoyed it. Claude reappears here(from 'Renegade') and possibly not for the only time but Delacroix maintains a low profile. However, as I was writing about Savatier, this chapter took a surprising turn which was not originally planned! They're en route to La Rochelle and arrive in the next chapter but tensions are already running high!_**

CHAPTER 17

Tréville and Sabatier sat relaxed upon their mounts on the upper slope of a hill and looked down upon the extensive column of men, carts and carriages winding their way in a colourful cavalcade across the open countryside. It was an impressive sight but its sheer length and the heavily laden vehicles dictated a pace slower than Tréville would have preferred. Moving a regiment and all it required to begin a long stay in the field plus the King, his entourage and accoutrements necessary for a comfortable journey was no mean feat.

Had it just been the musketeers on horseback, they would have covered a greater distance in a day, even allowing adequate time to water and graze the animals as well dismounting and walking them for a part of every hour so as not to overtax them. Travelling with the King, however, necessitated an earlier stop so that his capacious tent could be erected, minimally furnished and his food prepared. Mind you, Tréville found himself reflecting, Louis' idea of something being 'minimally furnished' did not equate with the views of most people, least of all the musketeers themselves who had to make do with a bed roll and blanket as well as a travel sack for limited spare clothing. En route to La Rochelle, they were intending to sleep under the stars unless weather conditions deteriorated and recommended otherwise. There were tents aplenty in the baggage train for when they arrived at La Rochelle.

So far, Louis had been reasonably co-operative in rising early and vacating his tent after he had taken breakfast so that the servants he had brought with him could rapidly repack, thus enabling them all to be back on the road again before too much of the morning had been lost. The point Tréville decided not to labour was that his men were up at first light. They had completed their ablutions; broken their fast on a simple, cold fare; groomed their horses; struck camp and were ready to leave before His Majesty appeared. They then used any remaining time to spar or clean and check weapons. No minute was wasted.

Treville looked at the musketeer vanguard and saw the familiar plumed hat of the King in their midst.

"If His Majesty insists on riding part of the day with the men, ensure that their numbers are increased at the next rotation," he ordered.

"Yes, Captain," Savatier answered, succinctly.

Tréville cast a sideways glance and wondered if the man was going to say anything else but silence hung heavy in the air. Savatier had become invaluable to him over the previous two years. More than once, he had felt vindicated in his judgement that the man fully deserved his promotion to his current rank. In his late thirties, Savatier was a career soldier and had joined the Musketeers from another regiment with an impressive range of experience on the battle front. He was not a tall man but solid and well-muscled. Nor was he verbose, preferring to watch and listen from the periphery before offering a quiet, well-judged opinion. The men respected him but Tréville suspected that they might not like him very much. He seldom did anything to ingratiate himself, like speak informally to them, share a joke or join the men for a drink and meal outside the garrison. He certainly never appeared to engage in any vices! In short, he never did anything the Captain was aware of that might lead to regimental gossip.

Tréville had to acknowledge that they worked reasonably well together. It did not matter what task was delegated to the man, he always fulfilled it with the same levels of reliability, efficiency and speed – quick yet methodical. However, the Captain felt he did not really know Savatier as a person and could hardly describe him as a friend. Being a commanding officer was sometimes a very lonely position!

He looked back towards the column and took out his spyglass to focus on the figure of the King who was gesticulating wildly with one hand and throwing his head around as he talked animatedly to the musketeer next to him.

Since leaving Paris, Louis had spent the first two days of the journey ensconced in his carriage with the Queen but the uncomfortable suspension and the swift onset of boredom due to hours of inactivity persuaded him to take to horse and ride up front amongst the men, his presence serving only to dampen their spirits and curtail their conversations. Tréville had been aware of the grumblings at the end of that first day when the men were talking round the camp fire about feeling very awkward in the monarch's company, not knowing what to say for he seemed eager to converse with them and went out of his way to push back the boundaries of informality beyond even that of the hunt.

"We ain't all friends together," moaned Claude from his position of unspoken authority on a fallen log dragged close to the fire. "He's who'e is and we are 'oo we are an' we shouldn't be tryin' to meet in the middle."

He was probably the oldest member of the regiment still on active service and he had very distinct views on the role of the musketeers and that of the monarchy. Currently disgruntled by the King's attempts to engage them in conversation, he was not afraid of voicing his opinions aloud, especially when he knew Tréville was making his mid-evening round of the camp and was passing behind the group just at that moment.

The Captain had assimilated what he overheard and pondered on it as he lay wrapped in his blanket later and tried to drift off to sleep. Would he eventually arrive at the point whereby he had to request diplomatically that the King refrained from riding with his men or at least that he remained a little more aloof? It could be argued, though, that this was an ample opportunity for the soldiers to see their monarch, the ultimate Captain of the Musketeer regiment, in a different light, rather than the far removed figure of French social hierarchy. They were in a position of privilege in seeing Louis on a regular basis, far more so than the rest of the country's population.

Tréville had watched and waited over the next few days and it was not too long before he saw a pattern emerging. Savatier had drawn up the rotations of who would be in the vanguard, the rear guard, those riding alongside stretches of the column and those who became outriders, scouting the countryside to ensure that there was no imminent threat. The lieutenant had decided who would be where, when and for how long and the teams rotated several times during each day to maintain interest and alertness.

What became obvious to Tréville was that Louis developed a tendency to latch onto those men with whom he felt he could converse more easily and recognised those who felt uncomfortable in his company. When the latter group made up the vanguard, he would make the decision to retreat to his carriage and either gossip amicably with his wife or doze until the rotation came into effect again. Then he would emerge, fresh, rested and talkative and would demand his mount so that the whole process could begin all over again.

It was, therefore, a tremendous source of amusement to the Musketeer Captain when he realised which group often became the focus of the King's attention and with whom he rode most. Even as he looked on now from his vantage point, he knew that Louis had attached himself to Athos, Aramis and Porthos and he could not conceal the wry smile when he wondered how Athos was faring with being the current focus of the King's attention.

"Do you think they will refrain from any more duelling?" Savatier suddenly asked as he could see where the Captain was looking.

"I doubt it," he replied with a sigh. "Oh they'll try, particularly whilst we are in the field. I don't doubt that at all but they are drawn to trouble just like the moth is drawn to the flame; it will find them out some day, somewhere."

"And what will you do then?" There was an edge to Savatier's tone that could not be ignored. Tréville had long suspected that his lieutenant had minimal patience for the _Inseparables_ for he frequently complained when he believed the Captain had not disciplined them sufficiently following another escapade. Yet another son of a lesser noble, Savatier seemed to reluctantly tolerate Porthos' existence in the regiment and he certainly condemned Aramis' more wild romantic adventures. Of Athos, he spoke very little but his demeanour and general dismissive attitude towards the young man screamed his disapproval.

Perhaps such negativity was the reason that Tréville was more inclined towards leniency. One thing he was sure of was that he would not be coerced into a heavy-handed disciplining of the miscreants.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I will, as they say, cross that bridge when I get to it."

"The 'harrumph' from the man at his side clearly demonstrated his disappointment at the non-committal answer but that was all he was going to get. For the first time in his working relationship with Savatier, Tréville felt the stirrings of unease and it blossomed into fruition at the man's next words.

"You are too easy on them. If we are joined in battle in the next few weeks, perhaps it is better to make an example of them now to keep the rest of the men in line, just as His Majesty demonstrated in Paris before we departed. We can't have too many of the soldiers thinking that they can do whatever they want because they are beyond the confines of the garrison."

Tréville's eyes were glacial as he slowly turned to confront his second-in-command. "You have seen many battles. How frequently have you seen high spirits exerted at the front to the detriment of men's safety and well-being?"

"You call their behaviour high spirits? They are frequently a disgrace to the regiment and are in danger of bringing it into disrepute. We cannot allow such insubordination to run rife in the ranks when we are facing a greater conflict," Savatier remonstrated.

"Their ways may not always adhere to the rule book or be conventional but their motives are always sound and well-meaning. Perhaps they could exercise a little more self-discipline at times but, when all's said and done, there are few in the regiment who can match their tenacity, skill and courage. They are becoming a force to be reckoned with and whilst that force is directed to defending the King and this country, then I am prepared to cut them some slack. If they need disciplining, then it is my responsibility and I will determine the why, how and the when."

Tréville spurred his horse onwards down the slope, not caring whether Savatier accompanied him or not. If the lieutenant thought he had a kindred spirit in the Captain with regards to the _Inseparables_ , then he was sadly mistaken. More than a frisson of concern ate into Tréville at that moment. They were on their way to La Rochelle to face God only knew what and now he was at odds with the man on whom he thought he could depend.

He had a feeling that it was an impasse that was not about to be remedied any day soon.


	18. Chapter 18

_**A/N Greetings all. At last our intrepid heroes reach La Rochelle and events begin to unfold further. Sorry about the delay but work demands made posting last Friday impossible. I do have a week off now so as long as I can balance the writing with the mountain of work I've brought home with me, there could be more than three chapters.**_

 _ **Today has been tinged with sadness as my family and I attended the funeral of a dear family friend of many years. During the summer and before the diagnosis of her final illness, she followed your interest in and comments regarding 'Renegade' with utter fascination (not being too familiar with internet technology) and was aware, at least, of the start of 'Retribution' so this chapter is dedicated to her memory.** _

CHAPTER 18

The dark, imposing walls of La Rochelle rose against the blue sky of early summer, their message loud and clear. The Huguenots within were not about to give in easily to the King's demands and were not intimidated by the tented city of royalist forces spreading out across the countryside towards the north and east. Sectioned into the various regiments identifiable by their colours, the smaller tents housing the men surrounded the larger pavilion of Louis' living quarters and command centre. It was clearly demarcated by a ring of unoccupied land, the royal standard and other associated pennants fluttering in a delicate breeze, and the musketeer guard detail.

Between the temporary and permanent cities, a hive of industry was evident. Richelieu, as commander-in-chief of Louis' forces, had given instructions for a series of siege trenches to be dug without delay and any spare men were employed to follow the engineer's instructions in adding their labours to the back-breaking work. If all this energy was being expended at such an early stage of the proceedings, it was obvious to any with military experience that they were going to be there for the long term and that the negotiations with the Protestants were not expected to be successful.

Delacroix, on his way back from guarding Louis, made a detour to the trenches, ostensibly to see how the work was progressing but he was more intent upon checking the whereabouts of the _Inseparables,_ whom he knew had had the misfortune to pull trench duty for the third successive day. Skirting his way along the rim of a deep cut in the landscape that was weaving its way around the south side of the city and angling towards the sea, he eventually caught sight of them. It was inevitable that he would find them in close proximity to each other and reluctantly had to acknowledge that they were not afraid of hard work, their movements synchronised into an easy rhythm of bending and rising, the earth from their laden shovels flying upwards and to the side, gradually increasing the mound that edged the earthworks.

Without being aware that he did so, his attention focused on the one man he despised above all others, although he would be hard pressed to give a valid reason as to why the hatred had festered. He had taken an immediate dislike to Athos the moment he had been accepted by Tréville into the regiment, wondering why the Captain wasted valuable time and resources on the apparent dregs of society when he believed that the King's élite force should consist of none but the sons of nobles. Athos was a worthless drunk, surly and aloof and Tréville was prepared to make erroneous excuses for the man just because he was able to wield a sword. Was that enough to accept him as a musketeer?

It would never register with Delacroix that his angst was borne of jealousy – nothing more and nothing less. He resented the way that Tréville favoured the three, especially Athos, and he resented the odd friendship that had flourished between the _Inseparables_ and their interdependency for, try as he might, those that made up his own circle of supposed friends did not demonstrate that same level of commitment and comradeship. They were drinking and eating colleagues but, in the heat of battle, could he depend upon them to protect his back?

However, the one thing that made him angry beyond all else was the respect and admiration the main body of the musketeers afforded the drunk because of the way he conducted himself with a rapier in his hand. Firm in the self- belief, albeit misguidedly, that he –Delacroix – was the superior swordsman since the inception of the musketeer regiment, he was not prepared to accept that his skills were vastly superseded by one who seemed to fight with very little effort. In the early days, Tréville had often put Athos and him together for sword practice and, much to his chagrin, he had never been able to best the man, even when the other was evidently suffering in the throes of an evil hangover. It was on one occasion, following a period of Delacroix goading him relentlessly in his aim to initiate some sort of response, that Athos had arrived for a bout stone cold sober.

As they had taken up their positions in the yard, Delacroix had seen the difference in the other man and this gave him the first stirrings of unease even before their blades had engaged. The first few thrusts and parries had been evidence alone that Athos was not taking the encounter lightly and Delacroix felt a semblance of panic for he was not sure just how far his opponent was prepared to go, even in a practice situation. For the first time in their pairing, Delacroix was afraid and rightly so for he did not know whether or not Athos had at last chosen this moment to retaliate.

It was Tréville's voice ringing out across the practice yard that brought the bout to an abrupt end. A moment was all it took for Delacroix to find himself frozen into immobility as a rapier point hovered at his throat. Breathing hard, he dared to look Athos straight in the eyes and was unnerved by what he saw there – a cold, fearless, intractable danger.

"Athos!" Tréville almost ran down the stairs from his office and crossed the yard in long, easy strides. "Athos, enough!"

Aramis and Porthos had risen from their seats at one of the outside tables from where they had been spectators, their faces masks of concern as they moved rapidly towards their friend and minds racing as they prepared to intervene.

There was a slight hitch of breath and a flick of the wrist as the rapier point shifted and quickly scored into the leather pauldron on Delacroix's right shoulder.

"Let that be a reminder to you never to underestimate me," Athos hissed as he stepped back, sheathed his sword, glared at Tréville and strode away.

From that day, Delacroix took Athos' words to heart and became increasingly scheming and manipulative in his treatment of the skilled swordsman. Tréville had not taken the risk of pitching them against each other in any form of training but was unable to protect Athos from the systematic bullying tactics that intensified as a result of the humiliation Delacroix had experienced for he picked his moments well, always taking advantage of the few occasions when he was in the company of those he deigned to call friends and Athos was alone.

...

Savatier took up position to supervise the change in duty teams at the trenches and scrutinised the work that had been achieved so far that day. The _Inseparables_ and the musketeers working with them could not be accused of shirking their obligations and had, between them, extended the trench they were in by a considerable distance, although it was but a small portion of the final plans. Whilst Athos, Porthos and Aramis were digging, he at least knew where they were and what they were doing. His decision to assign them for three consecutive days to the digging might be construed by some as unfair but he already had his justification in mind; they had behaved recklessly back in Paris when they had been ready to fight the Cardinal's men and had received no sanction as a consequence. He could not agree with Tréville's tolerance of their irresponsible conduct and decided to take it upon himself to mete out any justice he saw fit for their most recent transgression and any others that would surely happen in the future.

...

Meanwhile, Tréville took his leave of the King and headed, deep in thought, towards the trenches to see how the work was progressing. Having initially persuaded Louis to wait a week before departing from Paris, preparations at the garrison had moved on apace so that he obtained royal favour by announcing that they would be able to leave the city earlier than first anticipated and as soon as His Majesty was ready. They were, therefore, on the road two days ahead of schedule. Had the musketeers been travelling unimpeded by the royal presence and the whole baggage train, he would have expected them to reach La Rochelle in seven or eight days and that would have been pushing their mounts hard.

As it was, the weather held and they made good time without mishap which was remarkable in itself; they at last caught sight of the Huguenot stronghold late morning on their twelfth day of travel. Tréville still had grave misgivings regarding the wisdom of allowing the Queen and the closest members of her household to accompany them but she had insisted, not wanting to be separated for an indefinite period from her husband. Persuading the King to encourage her to return to Paris would be better left to another day and preferably before His Majesty's forces were embroiled in a heavy conflict with the Protestant defenders.

They had been at La Rochelle for two and a half days and as soon as their tents were pitched, the musketeers had joined in with the myriad of preparatory tasks Richelieu had ordered in readiness for a full scale siege. News from intelligencers in London did not bode well and spoke strongly of English involvement in favour of the Huguenots. It was no longer a source of speculation that a fleet was set to leave for French waters.

Reaching the trenches, Tréville looked at the advance the diggers had made since first light. It was as he looked on that he recognised the _Inseparables_ now waist deep in the trench where they were working. Frowning, he recalled seeing them in a similar place the day before and, if memory served him correctly, they had pulled trench duty in the hours after their arrival. As he surveyed the site, he noticed Savatier watching the men intently and he felt his anger rising. Surely his second in command had not taken it upon himself to punish the tree friends when he had made and voiced a decision to the contrary! He sighed and evoked a swift prayer in the hope that there was not an impending confrontation between Athos, Aramis, Porthos and the lieutenant.

His eyes swept the scene in front of him and stopped when he saw Delacroix hovering near the rim of a trench, his attention fixed on something or someone. As Tréville followed the line where he anticipated the blond haired man was looking, his heart sank as he saw Athos. Please, God, don't let there be further trouble there! There was too much going on with the impending siege for there to be complications but he could not shake off the overwhelming feeling that they were heading for stormy waters. How could he know that his fears were shortly to be realised, both on the literal and the metaphorical level!

As he watched, the three men in the trench straightened up.

...

Breathing heavily, Porthos stopped digging and leaned on his shovel with one arm as he wiped the sweat from his brow with the other hand.

"I've got a strong feelin' that we're bein' watched," he announced, keeping his voice low.

Athos did not even break the rhythm of slicing the blade of his shovel into the ground and hefting the disturbed soil up and out of the trench he was digging. "Absolutely," he added by way of agreement.

"Indubitably," Aramis said from where he was labouring to deepen the area where he was standing.

It registered with the big man that each of them was facing in a slightly different direction and his brow furrowed in puzzlement.

"Who do you reckon is doin' the watchin'?" he asked.

"Delacroix," Athos answered just as Aramis declared, "Tréville."

"I was thinkin' it was Savatier," he announced.

The other two ceased their work and stood upright, Athos rubbing the small of his back as if to dispel the aches that were manifesting themselves.

"Perhaps we are just a little paranoid?" Aramis offered by way of explanation.

Porthos shook his head vehemently. "It's unlikely all three of us'd be feelin' like that for nothin'."

Without a word, the three moved together as if to activate a defensive wall around themselves and turned, backs towards each other, as they faced out to the perceived threat they believed they faced. Surreptitiously, they looked about them, locating the three men watching them from their various positions.

"They're all keen on knowing our moves," Athos noted.

"Any ideas as to what we do now?" Porthos wanted to know, his expression grim.

"Smile and wave?" Aramis suggested. When his two friends rounded on him in frustration, he shrugged. "Well, do you have any better ideas?" When they could not think of a suitable answer, he continued. "Tréville watches us because he does not want us to get into trouble again; Delacroix is watching you, Athos, while he's plotting various ways to make your life as miserable as he can but Savatier now, he's an unknown quantity. What have we done to upset him, to warrant getting his undivided attention?"

"Maybe he just doesn't like us. I've always had the feelin' that he doesn't have much patience as far as we're concerned. He works out the main duty rosters for the Captain an' look how we've managed to pull this diggin' detail every day since we've been 'ere."

"Now you are imagining things," Aramis tried to make light of a situation that was even beginning to bother him. "You are also exaggerating. We only arrived here the day before yesterday so you can hardly start thinking that Savatier is picking on us for duties."

"How come we had to dig the first afternoon, yesterday _and_ today then? How many men are in the regiment and how many of them have not even stood in a trench yet?" Porthos insisted.

"Richelieu wants the trenches in place as quickly as possible. Men have been digging all possible hours and they're exhausted. We're new arrivals and it is understandable that they would set us to work straight away," Athos said, pushing up the long sleeves of his once white shirt. Now it was stained with sweat and dirt but he dare not shed it the way Aramis and Porthos had done theirs for he was far too prone to burning in the hot July sun. The redness and soreness around the back of his neck were already testament to where he had bent and toiled, exposing his tender, pale skin.

"Granted but it doesn't mean we're expected to dig 'em between the three of us," Porthos objected. "Besides, we'd just arrived after a long journey from Paris."

Aramis looked around at the other men who were digging in their vicinity."You can hardly say it's just the three of us; that is another exaggeration."

Porthos looked around, taking in all the men that he could see clearly. "I don't see too many musketeers amongst 'em, that's all. Seems it's fallen mainly to us, that's all I'm goin' to say on the matter."

Athos and Aramis exchanged glances but, before making further comment, they thought about Porthos' claim and realised that there was merit in it. The three of them had been tasked with joining the teams creating the system of trenches around the walls of La Rochelle and they had toiled long hours for three successive days, just as Porthos had noticed. There were a few other musketeers with them but there would have been many who could have been selected for rotation in digging trenches. They had no doubts about the men being employed somewhere else but there was no variation for them at least. Tréville would never usually draw up such a monotonous roster.

"It seems that Savatier would like to keep us occupied for some reason," Athos said. His demeanour was one of outward calm but his posture and quiet tone told a different story to the men who knew him; he was thinking over events very carefully and all that they had discussed.

"My day jus' keeps on gettin' better then," Porthos complained bitterly. "Not only 'ave I got to watch Delacroix watchin' you, Athos, an' tryin' to second guess what he's thinkin' of doin' next but now I got to keep an eye on Savatier keepin' an eye on us an' tryin' to work out what it is that's got him so riled against us. Not only that but Tréville is watchin' us and waitin' for us to get ourselves into more trouble."

"This is too complicated," Aramis moaned, casting aside his shovel. "It is making my head hurt."

Porthos looked around him and asked again. "So what should we do now?"

The relief duty were dropping down into the trench and taking over the tools to continue the onerous task of deepening the extent of trenches dug that day. Athos nodded his thanks to the man who relieved him of his shovel and then he clambered stiffly out of the trench stiffly.

"I don't know about you but I am heading down to the beach for a swim. I am coated with three days' sweat and dirt and I know I stink. The thought of water on my aching body sounds like bliss. Will you join me?"

Porthos shook his head. "My priority is to get some food and then I'll come down. It'll be good to get cleaned up but I'm not so sure about the swimming."

Aramis laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "You're always thinking of your stomach, my friend, but I admit that you are correct on this occasion. All this hard work gives a man a healthy appetite and just because Athos here thinks he can exist on the bare minimum of victuals does not mean that we have to do likewise." He grinned broadly at the swordsman. "If you believe that you can stay out of trouble for a little while without us, go and have your swim and when we have eaten, we will join you on the beach. Don't stray too far although I doubt that we will have too much trouble finding you on a bare beach. Who knows, we may even be generous and bring you some food."

The three friends parted company amicably, two in the direction of the camp and the third heading towards the water, humming softly to himself as he went.

Savatier crouched on the edge of the trench to answer a question raised by one of the replacement diggers and Tréville had been distracted by the approach of a messenger with yet another missive from the King so neither of them saw Delacroix signal to a group of musketeers who stood several feet from him.

Three broke away and moved to join him. After a brief exchange during which Delacroix pointed towards the beach, the quartet set off along the same route that Athos had taken minutes earlier.


	19. Chapter 19

_**A/N Thank you, dear friends, for your thoughtful words in your comments and private messages; they have meant so much.**_

 _ **Thank you as well for reviews; I know you are keen to know what transpires as Delacroix pursues Athos to the beach. Well here it is and the relationship between the two goes from bad to worse!**_

 _ **I also apologise for yesterday's typos. It doesn't seem to matter how many times I read things or do a spelling/grammar check (as I have done several times in the writing and aftermath of this chapter) but those pesky typos still creep in! I assure you that the THREE musketeers (as opposed to yesterday's 'tree') have not suddenly developed an environmental interest in the flora of France!**_

CHAPTER 19

Much heat remained in the late-afternoon sun as Athos reached the sandy beach. Hopping on his right leg, he pulled at the bucket-topped boot on his left foot and then repeated the process for the other one. Clutching the footwear, he slowly walked towards the sea, relishing the feeling of the soft, hot sand on the soles of his feet, the minute grains worming their way between his toes with each step he took. Glancing up and down the beach, he confirmed that he was utterly alone for the time being and he could not suppress a smile of delight at the new-found solitude after the journey from Paris, the confines of the camp and the enclosed walls of the trench.

Dropping his boots, he pulled his disgusting shirt up and over his head before screwing it up into a ball and throwing it down onto his footwear. Resolving to wash it later, he concentrated on peeling off the rest of his clothing and stood, eyes closed, as he welcomed the sun's warmth caressing every inch of his skin. With a satisfied sigh, he left his garments in an untidy heap and walked towards the sea.

The wet sand was now solid and cold, his footprints quickly back-filling with water. Small waves lapped first at his ankles, then at his knees, his thighs and finally his waist as he waded out before taking a deep breath and plunging smoothly beneath the surface, swimming with long strokes underwater for as far as he could before he had to come up for air.

Floating on his back, he felt a peace and contentment that he had not experienced for a long time. The water gradually leached the aches and pains from his body that had accrued from his hard graft and he felt refreshed for the first time in weeks.

Garrison preparations for nearly a month had been draining as the soldiers assumed a multitude of tasks in addition to their normal duties. They were assisting the skilled craftsmen such as the wheelwright and blacksmith as equipment was repaired, replaced and spares created from scratch. He had spent some time in the armoury casting musket balls, working with the molten lead, pouring it into moulds and leaving them to cool. Then he opened the wooden moulds to produce six perfectly cast pieces of linked ammunition, broke them apart and set about filing down the rough metal, leaving the tell-tale nipples on the musket balls.

The journey to La Rochelle had been straightforward but tiring, the musketeers' priority being the safety, comfort and well-being of the royal couple. The weather had held even though they anticipated the usual summer storms to break the oppressive atmosphere at any time and there had only been two incidents where wheels had to be replaced on laden carts. Delays were minimal as men worked together to unload the damaged carts, lent muscle power to change the wheels and then reloaded them to ensure that the journey could be resumed as quickly as possible.

He was not given to sleeping well at the best of times but his rest was even further affected when they were en route somewhere. Unable to settle, his senses were heightened as he strained to listen during the hours of darkness for anything untoward, whether he was officially on watch or not. In daylight and on the move, he never relaxed and was constantly alert, the resultant tension in his muscles adding to the cumulative ache in his shoulders.

Now he revelled in the cool water washing at his limbs. He rolled and dived, strong strokes and kicks propelling him through the calm sea and he fleetingly wondered when he had last taken the opportunity to swim for sheer pleasure. Breaking the surface, he swiped the wet hair from his eyes and circled. The sky was mainly an undisturbed, clear blue but to the south west, the first hint of a bank of clouds building was evident.

Treading water, he slowly circled again. He could see La Rochelle with its defensive walls, the harbour where a couple of large ships were moored, the trench work and the royalist forces. Continuing to turn, he saw the south-eastern end of the island of Ré, scene of the 1625 conflict. He was completing the last circle when he noticed that the horizon to the left of the island looked strange. Blinking the water from his eyes, he pushed himself upwards and focused on the line between sea and sky.

There was something there, of that he was convinced.

His mind raced as he considered the possibilities, coming back to the same conclusion each time. Concentrating hard, he let the water lap at him, spitting it out as he scrutinised the horizon and the minute dark shapes that had appeared. He tried to count them but they were too many and he gave up in the attempt.

It was the English fleet.

Athos struck out for the shore, intent upon raising the alarm and covering the distance in easy, vigorous strokes. As soon as he was able to put his feet down, he was up and running, splashing through the shallows as he headed for the shore and his clothes.

He skidded to a halt at the place where he thought he had left them but there was nothing there. Frantic, he looked up and down the beach in case he had come out of the water further along from where he had entered it but he was not mistaken; the beach was empty. In fact, indentations in the sand clearly showed where he had left the garments; equally clear were the two sets of footprints leading to where the clothing had been and then away again.

Facing the sand dunes, he let out an angry yell. "Aramis! Porthos! Joke over. Bring back my clothes now! I need to raise the alarm, the English are coming." When there was no immediate response he bellowed his order again. His friends might like to jest – and often at his expense - but not when there were serious ramifications at stake.

"The English are coming!" a voice jeeringly taunted and Delacroix stood up from behind a dune, waving Athos' leather breeches at him.

"Give those back," he spat angrily as first Delacroix emerged fully and then his colleagues Faron, Bertram and Garris appeared, each holding various items of his clothing.

The four slowly approached and spread out, intending to surround him as they ridiculed him and whistled, dangling his property teasingly before him.

"And what will you do if we don't?" Delacroix sneered.

"Stop wasting time, you dolt! Can't you see that the English fleet is approaching? The alarm must be raised," and he pointed out to sea in the direction of the enemy ships.

Delacroix did not even look past the object of his derision. "Of course, Monsieur Athos; anything you say, Monsieur Athos." He held out the breeches and as Athos took a step forward to take them, he danced back out of reach with a mocking laugh; the others joined in.

"He's a pretty piece of flesh," Faron jeered, his eyes appraising the naked musketeer.

"Perhaps there's a woman somewhere who thinks so," Massart added.

"His mother!" Garris shouted and the four laughed.

Athos' cheeks burned with unbridled rage at the waste of valuable time but those who mocked him interpreted it as success that their barbs had found a home and it spurred them on to continue their verbal assault.

"Have you ever seen him with a woman?" Delacroix rounded on his friends. "Perhaps it is not a woman who would appreciate his pretty flesh."

The four roared with laughter anew at his expense. Ignoring them, Athos gritted his teeth and made to move past Delacroix, intent upon walking back into the camp whether he was dressed or not for they must know that the English were within sight.

Delacroix, concerned that he was losing the target for his amusement, reached out a hand and grabbed Athos by the forearm, halting his progress.

"You're surely not thinking of leaving us?" Delacroix said, his voice scornful.

Athos stopped, looked down slowly at the hand that had stopped him and back up to its owner. "Take your hand off me," he insisted through clenched teeth.

Delacroix thought about it for a moment and decided that he had the advantage. "Or what?" he challenged, his eyes narrowing and all suggestion of humour fading away in an instant.

"Or you'll have to answer to us," came two familiar voices in measured unison. The sound of weapons being fully cocked broke the awkwardness and Athos turned his head to see Porthos and Aramis atop a sand dune, each holding a brace of pistols so that Delacroix and his friends were covered.

"So what do you propose to do now? Shoot us? It'd be interesting to see how you'd explain that," sneered Delacroix.

"Oh let me see," Aramis began, his brow furrowing as he pretended to think hard. "Captain Tréville is fully aware of your attitude towards Athos and he would not be very impressed by your behaviour here in taking the man's clothes away from him. He'd probably view it as being excessively childish and hardly the way of a responsible, trained soldier."

"It'd be very easy for us to say how our weapons were accidentally discharged whilst we were persuadin' you to part with 'is clothes an' if you accidentally got in the way and 'urt in the process, it'd be unfortunate," Porthos added, his fierce expression making his message clear; he was not joking and he was not going to brook any nonsense. "Who do you think Tréville is likely to believe?"

"His pet trio naturally," Delacroix snarled in barely concealed frustration.

"You know your problem?" Porthos persisted. "You've never let the Captain see your irresistible charm. As for us," and he threw wide his arms to indicate Athos and Aramis as well as himself, "we let him see that side of us all the time."

"Now," Aramis intervened, his voice deceptively warm and placatory as he exuded that same infamous charm, "why don't you just put the clothes down where you're standing and then move quickly and quietly back to camp and your other friends?" He gestured towards Delacroix with the barrel of one of his pistols.

Delacroix scowled at Athos, "What's the matter? Can't exist without your body guards? Good job for you they just happened to arrive in time." He took a step forward, expecting to intimidate Athos but the latter stood his ground and did not even flinch as his breeches were thrust into his arms. "This isn't over yet, you'll see." He pushed past Athos, causing the man to stumble slightly, and snapped his fingers as a signal for the other three to follow him.

As they disappeared over the dunes, Athos moved across the sand, stooping to pick up his discarded clothing.

"Are you all right?" Aramis asked as his friend began pulling on his braies but was met by a wall of stony silence.

Athos' face, ears and neck were scarlet and it had nothing to do with being exposed to the sun for too long.

"There's no need to thank us," Porthos pointed out with more than a hint of sarcasm, aware that some of the waves of unmitigated anger were directed at them.

Athos refused to say anything or look directly at them as he wriggled into his breeches, donned his boots again and dragged the soiled shirt over his head.

"What were we supposed to do?" Aramis pleaded. "Just let them humiliate you even more? You were standing there as naked as the day you were born and they didn't look as if they were going to return your clothes anytime soon." He watched in exasperation as Athos raked his hands through his wet hair and made to stride past him. "Well?" He was pushing for an answer.

Athos rounded on him as his temper exploded. "And you think your intervention did not add to my humiliation as you are wont to call it? Delacroix now believes that I have not the courage to move from one place to another without you looking out for me."

"Now wait a minute," Porthos interrupted, not liking the direction of the disagreement and seeking to defend his actions and those of Aramis. "If it weren't for us looking out for you over the past couple of years, heaven only knows what Delacroix would 'ave done to you by now. Today sinks to a whole new level. He's meanin' business but you let him walk all over you so that 'e thinks you're a coward an' that's not the Athos I know. Why don't you stand up to 'im?"

Athos turned his attention to the big musketeer. "You really have to ask that? Think about it!" he ordered. Glancing out to sea, he saw that the myriad of tiny specs had become clearer and more numerous. "Right now there are far more important matters. That's the English fleet heading this way and I need to warn Tréville."

Head down and refusing to meet the eyes of his friends, he walked briskly past them and back towards the camp.

Porthos appealed to Aramis. "I'm thinkin' an' I don't see it. Help me out here. Why won't he stand up for himself?"

Aramis sighed. "I think there are two possibilities here. Firstly, for some reason, he thinks he deserves his treatment. "Well you did ask me," he insisted as he saw Porthos about to object. "Secondly, I think he's afraid."

"Of what?" Porthos fired back.

"Of himself. If Delacroix pushes him too far and he retaliates, he won't know when to stop. I think he's afraid that he will kill Delacroix."

There was a pause as Porthos made a decision. "That's all the more reason that we have to look out for 'im then. We've been savin' him from 'imself an' the bottle ever since 'e became a musketeer. I don't see that this is goin' to add too much extra work."

Aramis clapped a hand to the big man's shoulder. "You are all heart, my friend. Come, the mood he is in now I fear that he'll be needing to be saved sooner rather than later."

He was not to know how prophetic his words would be. By the time the two of them had reached the camp and were heading towards Tréville's command tent, they were just in time to see Athos emerge from the shelter, his frame taut with undisguised anger as he looked around, seemingly searching for someone or something. Locating what he sought, he set off through the camp almost at a run.

Tréville appeared from his tent and shouted for the man to stop but Athos could not have heard him or – worse still – deliberately chose to ignore a command from the officer. Aramis and Porthos quickened their pace to join the Captain.

"What's happened?" Aramis demanded.

The officer was perplexed. "Get after him. He came to tell me that the English were in sight but I said I already knew as Delacroix had just told me. I don't know what happened but I've rarely seen him this angry and then he was always in his cups, not sober as he is now."

"What was that you were saying about saving him from himself?" Aramis asked as he broke into a run. Porthos easily kept pace with him as Tréville started after them.

They found Athos just as he found Delacroix but they were too slow for what happened next.

He grabbed Delacroix by the shoulder and spun the man round to face him just as he launched a punch with his right fist to the jaw, throwing his full weight behind the blow. Delacroix' feet left the ground and he landed on his back temporarily winded. Whilst his comrades were stunned into immobility, it was left to Athos' friends to intervene. From behind, Porthos wrapped both arms around Athos, pinning his hands to his sides as he struggled to hold him tight. Athos fought against him like a man possessed, feet kicking out as he sought a better purchase on the ground.

"Enough! Stop it!" Porthos shouted in his ear, wincing as a flailing foot made contact with his shin.

"Athos, no more," Aramis insisted, standing sideways, arms outstretched in warning as he looked from Delacroix on the ground to where his friend struggled for freedom.

Tréville caught his chin and tried to turn Athos' head so that he was looking at him. "Desist, man. What do you think you're doing?"

"He ... He ..."Athos tried to explain but the uncontrollable rage that consumed him rendered him speechless.

It was at that moment that Savatier appeared from between two tents, alerted by the commotion. His face darkened as he saw who was at the centre of the furore.

Delacroix found his voice and breath. Perceiving himself as the wronged individual, the words were out of his mouth before he had time to think about what he was saying, who was witness to proceedings and the potential repercussions.

"How dare you!" he growled, turning his head to spit out a broken tooth and blood. "You're nothing but a common soldier, how dare you lay a finger on me."

"Silence, musketeer!" Tréville bellowed but Delacroix was not listening.

"I challenge you ..."

"No!" Aramis yelled, his eyes wide as he turned in desperation to look at his friend.

Athos had freed an arm and he used it to point directly at Delacroix. "Name your time and place!" he roared.


	20. Chapter 20

**_A/N Greetings all and thank you for your continued support and encouragement. In this chapter, Athos has certainly got himself into a bit of a mess but it isn't only him and Delaccroix who are giving poor Treville a headache! Add to the mix Savatier, Louis, the English etc._**

CHAPTER 20

Briefly checking to make sure that Porthos still had a tight hold of Athos, Tréville clasped a handful of shirt and manhandled Delacroix to his feet. Without releasing him, he held him close so that their faces were inches apart.

"You will be silent. Do not even think about saying another word. Nod if you understand me," the Captain demanded in a low voice, his expression making it clear that he was not going to tolerate any further dissension.

Delacroix nodded vehemently. Tréville could feel the man trembling in his grip and took grim satisfaction in the fact. The situation had escalated almost out of control and he would be hard pressed to bring both men back from the brink of self destruction, either at the hand of the other or as the result of a fatal sanction should the King ever hear of what had transpired in the camp. The challenge had been so public that he wondered what he might have to do to suppress news of it spreading. Glancing at Savatier's glowering face, he suspected that he would have no support there.

He had no time for sorting out this fiasco for he had to see the King urgently; the imminent arrival of the English was far more pressing but he had to make sure that his own men refrained from turning on each other again. Apart from the risk of one or more fatalities, they might draw in friends and supporters to their discord and he could ill-afford a fractured regiment at this point. What he really wanted to do was to grab both Athos and Delacroix and knock their heads together; perhaps that would engender some sense into the pair of them.

He released Delcroix and pushed him away, moving so that he could see both unruly men simultaneously and fixing them with an unforgiving glare.

"I am going to see the King and I do not know how long I am going to be. I will deal with you two on my return. For now, you will go to my command tent and will wait for me in there. I could make you stand for the duration but that might give one or other of you the excuse to move so you will sit on opposite sides of the tent; there are chairs enough." He looked around at the musketeers who had gathered to view the kerfuffle and spotted the face of a seasoned soldier.

"Claude!" he shouted and waited for the man to push his way through to where the Captain stood.

"Sir!" the older man acknowledged. His face betrayed no emotion or surprise. He had been summoned for a purpose and he would see whatever it was through to completion without question.

Tréville indicated the two errant musketeers with a sweep of his hand. "You heard me give this pair an instruction; you will see that it is carried out to the letter. They are not to speak or even look at each other and if they so much as twitch a muscle, you have my permission to shoot them. Understood?"

"Yes, Cap'n." Claude never even raised an eyebrow at the order but drew his pistol, set it at half-cock and gestured for the two young men to precede him to the Captain's tent. In silence, they complied and those gathered watched them depart, wondering the fate that was going to befall them as all were fully mindful of Louis' rule regarding duelling especially after the executions in Paris.

Tréville turned his attention to the friends and comrades of those led away. "There is to be no further argument on this topic. If any of you take action on behalf of either of them, you will be dealt with very severely; make no mistake. We are on the verge of war with the English; I should not have to be considering the serious discipline of two of my men at this juncture and I certainly cannot afford to lose any of you when we face the unknown. This is an order, neither a request nor a suggestion. Let that be understood." Twisting on his heel, he marched away, the set of his shoulders conveying to all the extent of his anger and disappointment. "Savatier, with me!"

The lieutenant moved swiftly to catch up with the older man and they walked together in silence for a few minutes.

"What do you propose to do with him?" Savatier asked eventually, not making eye contact with his commanding officer under the pretence of monitoring what was going on in the camp through which they passed as they headed towards the royal pavilion.

 _Him._ It was painfully noticeable that Savatier had not said _them_ and Tréville knew, without asking, to whom the lieutenant was referring. A second-in-command should be supportive, not adding to the divisive atmosphere between his men.

"I shall decide what to do with them when I have met with the King and know what it is we will be doing in the face of the English. I have to prioritise and they are not at the top of my list right now." There! He had been unequivocal in his wording; namely that Delacroix was also involved in this.

His vocabulary choice had not gone unnoticed by his lieutenant either. "Them? You would punish both of them?"

Tréville stopped abruptly and Savatier had taken several steps before he realised and halted, turning to face the superior officer. "Naturally I am going to punish both of them. Delacroix issued the challenge; we all were witness to it."

"Yes and we were all witness to the fact that Athos punched him in an unprovoked attack!" Savatier objected.

"How do you know?"

"Know what?"

"That it was an unprovoked attack," Tréville persisted.

Savatier blustered, not having the evidence to present except for one thing. "Athos has been nothing but trouble of late."

"And what makes you say that?" Tréville asked, resuming his walk.

"He's a drunk, getting into trouble with the Red Guard at every opportunity." Savatier lengthened his stride in order to keep pace with the Captain. "You saw for yourself that he was prepared to ignore the King's law and duel back in Paris. Now you've just heard him jump at the opportunity to duel with Delacroix. The man is dangerous and unpredictable; the Musketeer regiment is not the place for one such as he."

Tréville was fast losing patience at the persistent defamation of one of his men, especially when those making the comments were not in full possession of the facts. He knew some of Athos' background – such as him being the Comte de la Fèr – and it frequently plagued him that he had been sworn to secrecy by the young man when he had first arrived at the garrison in search of a commission that his true identity would not be revealed. It was painfully obvious that Aramis and Porthos were still ignorant of that news despite having offered their friendship and gradually gaining his confidence. The Captain was no fool and knew there was much more in Athos' past and he wondered if he would ever really find out about the depth of horrors and demons that haunted the young man.

Delacroix had no right to refer to Athos as a 'common soldier'. The arrogant, blond-haired musketeer may hail from the lower nobility and have a father who had been prepared to secure him a commission in the King's regiment but Athos' lineage and title gave him a much higher status and power. Tréville could not help but wonder what Delacroix' reaction would be if he knew. With a sinking heart, he felt that it would exacerbate the situation and the man's jealousy would be fuelled by that information.

"And when was the last time you saw Athos drunk or hung over?" Tréville asked suddenly.

Savatier looked puzzled. "Well … erm …it was ….."

"Come on, man," Tréville pressed. "When was it?" He waited for an answer that was obviously not forthcoming for it had been several weeks now since Athos had displayed the tell-tale signs of a hangover; there was some progress then. "And even when he was hung over, how many times did you see him let it interfere with his work?"

Savatier chewed on his bottom lip, frustrated as he saw his carefully laid objection being taken apart piece by piece.

"What actual trouble, excluding the attempted duelling, has he been in of late? I admit he and his friends have some unorthodox methods at times but they get their work done. Besides," and here he paused to grin at the memory, "do you know why they were ready to get themselves embroiled in a duel?" When Savatier shook his head, he continued, "They were defending my honour. It seems the Red Guard had been more than a little disrespectful as far as I was concerned and they were not willing to tolerate it." He could hardly contain the feeling of smugness when he saw Savatier's stunned reaction and then he decided to push his advantage even further.

"Did you stop to consider what Delacroix had done to Athos that made him so angry?"

They had reached the King's pavilion and, as they approached, the four musketeers on duty outside the entrance snapped to attention. Tréville waved a hand to signal them to stand at ease and paused, waiting for his lieutenant's answer.

It was reluctantly given. "No, I didn't."

"No," said the Captain, ducking his head to enter the tent, "and neither did I. That's the first question I shall be asking as soon as I get back. You are familiar with the animosity that lies between them. In the two years that I have known Athos, I can honestly say that I have never seen such an explosion of temper as we witnessed a while ago; that is not his way. We have both seen how he normally masks his feelings; something of significance must have happened to initiate that behaviour and I intend to find out what it was. I believe that his reaction was indeed provoked."

Louis was pacing in agitation and Richelieu's calm tones were clearly trying to appease him as the two musketeer officers approached and bowed low.

"Ah!" the King exclaimed, catching sight of them. "My dear Tréville, the English are nearly upon us. We must make our move. How soon can you be on board?"

"Sire?" the Captain looked in confusion from his sovereign to the Cardinal. "On board? Why?"

Richelieu took up the explanation. "You know the Huguenots seized Île de Ré two years ago until we took back possession of it. We suspect that the English are heading there with the intention of invading and making it their base. From there, they will have easy communication with the mainland and the Protestant stronghold in order to offer their support. It will also put them in an ideal position to blockade the waters. We need to ensure that we have additional soldiers on the island as quickly as possible to augment the Governor's forces there. It is imperative that we maintain control of the island."

"The musketeers would double Toiras' cavalry for a start," Louis said.

"But what of your safety here, Your Majesty?" Tréville asked, wary that the King had not thought through the consequences of sending his own regiment away.

"Do not concern yourself, my dear Captain. The Cardinal has already promised his Red Guard will take over that responsibility. My regiment is the best," he broke into a light laugh and turned to his First Minister. "I do try not to be biased, Cardinal, but it is hard; you will forgive me."

Richelieu smiled and bowed, "But of course, Your Majesty. I understand your heartfelt pride."

"There you are, Captain," Louis beamed, "I think that is the closest the Cardinal will come to owning that mine is the superior regiment. Of course they are the best and, as such, they are the most skilled to join Toiras against the English as our first line of defence. It will be an honour and a privilege for the regiment to be amongst the first to engage with the enemy."

"As you wish, Sire," Tréville said quietly as the King continued to effuse about the regiment's prowess.

"Over the past few years and especially since the last troubles on the island, fortifications have increased on my orders," Richelieu continued. "The citadel at Saint-Martin de Ré and the Fort de La Prée are such that it would be disastrous to our cause if they were to fall into enemy hands."

"What about the defences here?" Tréville wanted to know.

"We are assured that a large force well-equipped with cannon is gathering and set to be heading this way under Charles of Angoulême; they should arrive in early August." Richelieu continued.

"August? But that's another three weeks yet." The Captain's voice betrayed his concern.

"And we will be fine if you and Toiras keep the English occupied," Louis said more seriously as he recalled the fleet's imminent arrival. "I cannot believe that man is married to my sister and I welcomed him to my court two years ago and now he does this. He even has the audacity to send the fleet under _that_ man!"

Those present knew that he was referring to King Charles of England who had married Louis' fifteen-year old sister after a lengthy and aborted attempt to marry into a Spanish allegiance. The French monarch had hoped that such a marriage would have brokered a lasting peace after the turbulent relationship with the English a few years earlier. _That man,_ George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, had accompanied Charles to the French court when the royal marriage was arranged. With a Catholic queen on the English throne, the Protestant King and his advisors risked a breakdown in foreign relations by making evident their support for the Huguenots. It was an unfortunate state of affairs.

"Can you leave tonight?" Louis queried.

Tréville gulped for air at a loss for words. It was nearly six in the evening and at this time of July, sunset was just before ten. How could he be expected to have a regiment, its equipment and horses ready and aboard ship before night fell? Would a crossing to the island after dark even be feasible?

Surprisingly, it was Richelieu who came to his rescue. "Sadly, Your Majesty, the Captain will be unable to catch the tide this evening. It would be better if they sailed in the morning, especially as storm clouds are brewing."

"Storm clouds for us will be storm clouds for the English, Cardinal. If fortune is with us, rough weather will hold them at bay. We will, however, make sure our ships take advantage of the situation and get there first."

"And if the storm should be too violent and prevent us from sailing?" Tréville asked. "We must not endanger the ship and men unnecessarily."

Louis' face darkened at the perceived lack of confidence in his plan. "We will not be deterred by a summer storm, Captain. It is not exactly far for our ships to sail. We _have_ to be on the island before the English decide to make their move; they will not know the waters like our mariners do. You have a leeway of a few hours, Captain. Make sure that you and your men are ready to catch the next tide; there must be no more delay. Your ship will leave on the morrow, regardless of the weather."

 _ **Historical notes:**_

 _ **-Whilst the Musketeers were at La Rochelle, I have no evidence to suggest that they went to the island. That may well be entirely of my own making and although Louis did go there at some point, I have not found relevant dates for his sojourn at the seige. Richelieu was Commander-in-chief when Louis was not present.**_

 _ **-Charles of Angouleme did indeed arrive with a huge royalist force and artillery in August but to have Richelieu et al there in July is my creation in order to have the musketeers on Re for the events that unfolded there so please forgive my 'writer's licence'.**_

 _ **\- Apparently the summer of 1627 in the La Rochelle area was a very wet one and, in the next chapter, the storm clouds break! (Probably in more ways than one!)**_

 _ **\- the Marquis de Toiras was made Governor of the island after the 1625 Huguenot uprising had been quelled and the island retaken.**_

 _ **V**_


	21. Chapter 21

**_A/N Many thanks for all the comments; we're so close to the two hundred comments. Thank you all so much for your never-ending support; I love to hear from you_**

 ** _In this chapter, we begin with the Treville/Claude double act as they deal with the two miscreants. For some reason, not everyone is happy with the news that they are about to embark for the island!_**

CHAPTER 21

As he walked briskly back towards his command tent, Tréville issued a string of instructions to his second-in-command, promising him that he would join him in supervising preparations for leaving La Rochelle as soon as he had dealt with the miscreants. He was still contemplating his options regarding possible sanctions as Savatier peeled away and he spotted two familiar figures sitting patiently on the grass outside the tent. It was highly unlikely that they would have been anywhere else. Glancing around quickly, he thought it interesting that none of Delacroix' so-called friends remained in the vicinity and he was convinced that they had not removed themselves to avoid a further altercation with Athos' brothers.

Aramis and Porthos scrambled to their feet on his approach, hats held deferentially in hands as they waited to intercept him, their nervousness plain for anyone to see.

"Captain ..." Aramis began but Tréville did not break his stride.

"Not now, either of you. I am not in the mood for a reception committee."

Even as he swept past them, he expected them to disobey and pursue him with their objections. When they did not do so, it was their strangely silent compliance that stopped him.

He turned and studied them, seeing the hope re-ignited in their eyes as they watched him.

With a heavy sigh, he walked back to the pair.

"On second thoughts, tell me what you know and keep it brief."

So they did.

He felt better informed as he re-entered the stifling atmosphere of his tent; it would be a relief when the storm broke and the rains came to cool the air. As far as the two musketeers were concerned, it was as he suspected all along; that Delacroix was responsible for a slight greater than usual but even Tréville had not expected the level of puerile behaviour on the man's part. Worse than that, Delacroix had been prepared to delay valuable information regarding the first sighting of the English fleet from reaching the command posts. Not that it really mattered for Tréville was already aware of the fleet's arrival from one of the many lookouts around the royalist camp. It was the principle that was most important.

When he entered the confines of the tent, Tréville was relieved to see the two troublemakers sitting opposite each other, straight-backed and still on wooden chairs. Claude had positioned himself off to one side, straddling a third chair, his arms resting along the back and supporting his weapon, his vantage point giving him a clear view of the two men.

All three rose to their feet on seeing the Captain, the younger two snapping to attention and staring straight ahead, not daring to make eye contact with anyone. The tension in the air could be cut with a knife. Tréville gestured to Claude to resume his seat whilst ignoring the other two. Turning his back on them, he began to unbuckle his weapons belt, laying it across the table top as he spoke.

"Have they given you any trouble, Claude?"

"Nope. If they 'ad, there'd be blood an' if they kept it up, they wouldn't be breathin'."

Tréville was glad that he had his back to the men as he felt the corners of his mouth twitch. Trust old Claude to ease the mood.

"'Sides, when you gave me permission to shoot 'em, you didn't say as 'ow I needed to kill 'em outright from the start."

"You're correct," the Captain acknowledged as he revolved to face the veteran. "And what would you suggest I do with them?"

"These young 'uns 'aven't got the sense they were born with. They're like young bucks bumpin' heads. You'd think they were fightin' to be leader of the herd," and here he broke off to glare at Delacroix, "but I'd be thinkin' that's not what's behind all this. They need to be burnin' off all that excess energy if they can't find a better use for it. I'd say put the pair of 'em in an open space an' let 'em fight it out; not with weapons, mind. There'd be those who might say that's a duel an' that's not what we're meanin'. No, let 'em fight until one or neither of 'em is standin'. They'll learn."

"It's a tempting proposition," Tréville agreed as he looked over at the two with interest.

Their different body language spoke volumes. Delacroix stood defiantly, scowling ferociously at Claude, his hands clenched into fists and Tréville could see in an instant that he was totally unrepentant and resentful of the fact that the older soldier had been given a voice. Athos, on the other hand, stood with head bowed, staring fixedly at a point on the ground in front of his boots but there was no hiding the flush of embarrassment and shame that coloured his face.

Claude had not finished though.

"You know what makes me so mad about you two? In a matter of days, good men are likely to die but they'll do that knowin' an' hopin' that it's for somethin' better; they're fightin' for the King an' France. They're willin' to risk good flesh an' blood. What're you two about? Why are you wantin' to waste yourselves when the Captain 'ere needs all the men 'e can get? What's so important that you'd go that far? How dare the two o' you think what's goin' on between you is more important than the business of the King himself!" He broke off, speechless with anger.

Tréville leaned back against the table, straight legs crossed at the ankle, his arms folded across his body and frowned. "I couldn't have put it better myself."

Delacroix was not of the same opinion as anger, fuelled by his arrogance, erupted as he glared at Claude.

"You dare to speak to me like that, old man?"

Tréville had been patient for long enough and suddenly, his patience utterly exhausted, he demonstrated one reason as to why he was captain of the King's regiment. He moved with a speed that Delacroix had not considered possible. Fleetingly, he looked as if he were about to grab the younger man by the throat but, at the last, he restrained himself, realising that it would do him no favours to la hands on a subordinate – no matter how infuriating the man might be - and his hands dropped to his sides but there was no mistaking his fury as he spat out his question.

"And would _you_ dare to speak to _me_ like that, _boy_?"

Delacroix had the good sense to look sheepish as the Captain harangued him.

"You do not think before you speak; you open your mouth and what pours forth is a vitriolic vomit. You are so wrapped up in your own sense of misguided self-importance that you do not think of any other person. You jump so easily to conclusions. What do you know of my background, or his?" He pointed at Claude. "Or his?" and his finger settled in Athos' direction. The beleaguered musketeer's head shot up and Tréville saw the flash of panic in his eyes as he feared the Captain was about to reveal truths about his history in order to prove a point. He need not have worried for Tréville would not make that fundamental mistake; Claude was his example.

"That _old man_ , as you so rudely call him, has fought by my side as a musketeer and in previous regiments from a time when you could barely walk; he taught me most of what I know and he has protected me every step of the way. He has more knowledge and understanding of strategy and being in the field than you will ever have the common sense to learn so don't you _ever_ let me hear you denigrate him or anyone else of his calibre again."

He paused for breath and Delacroix blinked owlishly at him as he readied himself to start afresh.

"I am not sure why you have taken against him," and he indicated Athos, "but I am sick of it. You are naught but a bully, do you know that? And perhaps I should have intervened many a time before now but I foolishly took the view that you are grown men and that whatever initiated this discord might be overcome by rational thought and developing maturity , but today's debacle has proved how wrong I can be."

Tréville was in his stride now. "What possessed you to take his clothes? Whatever gave you cause to think that was acceptable behaviour from a trained soldier towards one of his colleagues?" He managed to take another step closer to Delacroix and spoke slowly and carefully into the younger man's face as his own grew as dark and thunderous as the changing skies outside.

"Whatever grudge you have with Athos is one thing but what I will _not_ forgive is your willingness to delay him reporting that the English were on the horizon. Your actions could potentially have endangered the King's forces and his cause. That is negligence – nay, even betrayal - of the highest order. You do something like that again and all it will take is one word from me to the King to revoke your commission and I do not care one bit what it cost your father in the first instance."

"But I came and told you," Delacroix paled and muttered in self-defence. "There was a delay of minutes, if that."

"You just do not understand, do you? It is enough that there was a delay, that there was something you considered of more importance than allowing him to make his report. You then decide to make the report in his stead. Do you expect me to be grateful?"

He gave Delacroix the chance to respond but there was nothing the man could say.

"We are leaving for Ȋle de Ré on the morning tide. You will join the team getting the horses ready tonight, load them on board and then you will travel with them to monitor their well-being. I neither want to set eyes on you or hear anything about you until we have disembarked tomorrow. I would not delay discipline in any other situation so you should hope that we will be too busy dealing with the English for me to worry about a final sanction; Claude is correct – I need all of you ready and prepared to fight. If that were not the case, you would not be standing here now, of that I can assure you. Now, get out of my sight!"

Delacroix did as advised but he was muttering under his breath as he went, enough that Tréville knew that he spoke but not the words. He could have summoned him back but did not think it worth expending the energy. Instead he raised an eyebrow in Claude's direction, the gesture sending a question that was understood in an instant. The older soldier looked grim.

"'E ain' happy an' he's certainly not acceptin' any of the responsibility. You need to watch that one. I'm thinkin' you just made yourself an enemy."

Tréville shrugged. "I'm not in this business to make friends. I doubt very much that he had a favourable opinion of me in the first place but if thinks he can conduct himself like that in this regiment, he needs to reconsider whether or not this is the best place for him."

Athos still stood there, refusing to make eye contact with anyone. Tréville looked from him to Claude and nodded his thanks. The older soldier smiled and winked as if to wish the officer good luck in dealing with the troubled younger musketeer. Tréville merely rolled his eyes and waited until he was alone with Athos in the tent.

Picking up the chair Delacroix had vacated, he put it in front of his table and walked round to his own seat.

"Sit," he ordered but Athos did not move. "Now!"

He waited until he was obeyed. "How often do we have to have this conversation?" There had been numerous occasions when they – correction, he – had discussed the problem of Delacroix but Athos had appealed to him not to intervene in the situation. Like Aramis and Porthos, he could not understand why Athos appeared to tolerate the way Delacroix treated him without objection.

The dark head tilted upwards, the shock of unruly, waving hair nearly masking the green eyes as he stared back at the officer in silence.

Tréville sighed. "Aramis told me what happened at the beach."

"He should not have done that," Athos said softly.

"And why not? He and Porthos continue to worry about you and don't even try to tell me that they have no need. If you don't understand it by now, I doubt you ever will. They are your friends, your brothers and they have your back. You have your own guilt about many things, I know, and now they have theirs because they were not with you at the beach to prevent Delacroix and his colleagues from stealing your clothes in the first place. His behaviour was unforgivable but then you reacted. Why? After all this time and all that he has done or said, why choose now?"

There was a pause. "I don't know."

"And I don't believe you," came the immediate rejoinder. "In the time I've known you, there has never been a time when you have acted without some reason or motivation. I may not have agreed with you but that's who you are. Why did you do it?"

"It is not important." The voice was low, the words barely audible.

"Well obviously it is; to you at least. Why don't you try explaining it to me?" When no immediate answer was forthcoming, he reached behind him for a bottle of brandy and two cups. He poured out two measures, stopped the bottle again, pushed one cup across to Athos and sat back, turning his own cup in his hands.

Athos thought about it for a moment. "I was coming to tell you about the English but he tried to prevent me and then he came to you himself. He sought glory where there was none to have; it was duty."

Trévlle waited patiently, knowing from past experience that it achieved little if Athos were to be pushed for any information appertaining to himself but he was not to be drawn and the Captain felt disappointment. The younger man was complex, enigmatic and he doubted that he would ever understand him. With his cup in hand, he indicated the second drink that he had poured and watched as Athos downed it in one.

"I cannot let this go unpunished," Tréville announced quietly.

Athos replaced the cup on the table, studied it for a moment and then raised his eyes to meet the Captain's scrutiny. "I know. I would not expect otherwise. I should not have reacted to Delacroix the way I did. My behaviour was inexcusable and played into his hands. It has brought nothing but shame upon me and I am sorry. Do what you will, there will be no complaint from me."

"Apology accepted but as I said to Delacroix, there are far more pressing issues to deal with tonight. I will give it some thought. For now, you need to get back to your tent and pack up what you can for an early departure tomorrow."

"We are really going to Ré in the morning?"

"Really, so get some sleep. We need to be moving at first light. Dismissed."

Athos hesitated and Tréville wondered if he was about to make a further comment but he kept his silence. What was more concerning was the way in which what little colour he had suddenly drained from his face. Dipping his head slightly, he stood up and left the tent hurriedly.

Tréville sat back, perplexed, and tapped the table top with his finger tips as he wondered what had brought about this abrupt change in the younger man. If the officer had not known any better, he would have thought that it was an expression of fear that had sent Athos swiftly leaving the tent but the news that they were departing to the island had very obviously bothered him.

The only reason he could conceive for the dramatic effect was that the young man was a poor sailor and did not relish the crossing to Ré but the island was not far and the journey should not take too long.

Athos strode from the tent, distractedly talking to himself, and did not even notice that his two friends awaited him. He walked straight past them and they exchanged confused glances.

"What did he say?" Porthos asked as they watched Athos heading towards the area where they had pitched their tent. They slowly moved to follow him.

"I don't know," Aramis said, "but it sounded something like 'I'm not getting on any ship.'"


	22. Chapter 22

_**Dear all, profuse apologies for the delay. Sadly real life caught up with me and I had much work to do that I didn't do the week before (because of writing!) So the 'will he/won't he?' question regarding Athos and ships comes to a head today. I hope you enjoy!**_

CHAPTER 22

The sun had been up for a couple of hours and the quayside was busy as the musketeers moved horses and equipment from where they had been camping in readiness for embarkation. Carts trundled over cobbles bringing tents, canvas and bed rolls; food and medical supplies; weapons and ammunition; spare saddles, bridles, leather and horse feed; a wide range of tools and rope and a myriad of other accoutrements required by a well-resourced regiment entering the field of potential combat. Many of the men formed lines and passed the goods from one to the other to facilitate swifter loading of the ship. More tried to calm skittish horses reluctant to walk up the wooden gang planks and resorted to fashioning hoods to put over their heads to shield them from the bustle and whatever else it was that unnerved them.

"Maybe we need one of those," Porthos announced, unloading a flour sack from a laden cart and depositing it onto a growing pile at the base of the nearest gangplank.

"One of what?" Aramis said, breathing hard as he heaved another sack over his shoulder and turned to drop it on top of the one Porthos had just deposited moments before. He paused long enough to wipe the droplets of sweat from his upper lip with his shirt sleeve.

"One of those hoods they're putting' on the horses," Porthos explained, taking a long drink from a water skin before passing it to his friend. "We could put it on 'im," and he nodded with his head to where Athos paced back and forth along the quayside, periodically stopping and looking up at the vessel that towered over him before running his hands distractedly through his hair and resuming his pacing.

The rigging creaked noisily and there were the rhythmical bumps of the wooden hull against the dock as the ship moved with the swell that had increased in the past hour along with the ominous gathering of storm clouds. Those of the previous afternoon had dispersed without amounting to anything but this morning was a totally different matter; they would have to work fast to have everything safely stowed before the first raindrops fell.

"How long has he been doing that?" Aramis asked, stoppering the water skin and setting it to one side as he reached for another sack.

"About twenty minutes or so at a guess," Porthos answered. "Ever since the wind got up."

They paused in their work to watch Athos as he began wandering again.

"'As 'e said anythin' to you?" Porthos wanted to know, bemused by his friend's bizarre behaviour.

"Nothing other than to tell me yet again that he's not getting on board," Aramis said worriedly.

"No explanation?"

"None." Aramis inhaled deeply. "We need to get him back to work. If Tréville catches him pacing like this, he's not going to be very pleased, especially after yesterday's trouble."

They approached him in a pincer movement as he paused once more to stare out at the worsening sea conditions between the mainland and the island, the outline of which was gradually being obliterated by mist. Initially they thought he had not realised that they were there but then he spoke.

"The storm's going to break. They can't make us sail in this," Athos announced determinedly. "They won't, will they?" A plaintive edge crept into his voice as if he were beseeching them to concur with him.

Porthos frowned for he had never seen Athos like this before and it was disturbing; he was at a loss as to what was wrong and how he could best help his friend. The one thing that Athos was usually a master at concealing was any vestige of fear; he had seen battle, had been at risk on missions and undoubtedly had known trepidation but he had never shown it; not like this, not like now.

"The King wants us on that island before the English. We have to finish the work quickly and be ready to sail with the tide," he said simply, not knowing how else he could persuade the other man on board. Athos was a man of honour and duty; he would not – could not – renege on either.

But Porthos underestimated the depth of feeling that coursed somewhat irrationally through the Musketeer.

"I am _not_ getting on that ship," Athos declared petulantly, "and you can't make me."

"You're right; they can't," came a familiar voice from behind them, "but I can – and I will."

The three turned simultaneously to face Tréville who had silently come up behind them. His very stance exuded authority, feet wide apart, weight evenly balanced, arms folded and a scowl upon his features. Porthos and Aramis cast nervous glances between the officer and their friend and wondered how the impasse would be resolved.

"Get back to work," Tréville ordered and waited.

Athos hesitated but a moment and then, head bowed, he walked past the older man and headed to the cart to hoist a sack upon his shoulder and take it to the gangplank.

Tréville watched him go. "Well?" he demanded of the men who remained with him.

"Nothing," Aramis answered, shaking his head sadly.

"There is still no accounting for this behaviour?"

"None," Porthos confirmed.

"Does he fear getting sick on board?" Tréville wondered aloud.

Porthos snorted. "This is the man who'll throw up what he's spent the previous three hours pourin' down 'is throat. I doubt it. I reckon there's a lot more behind this."

Tréville looked thoughtful and then rounded on Porthos. "Get him on board. I don't care how you do it. Get him drunk or knock him out but get him on board. I'd rather not have to shoot him for desertion."

Aramis' jaw dropped in shock. "You wouldn't," he breathed.

Tréville was already striding away. "Get him on that ship and we won't have to find out, will we?"

Porthos and Aramis stared after their angry officer and then glanced at their stubborn friend depositing a second sack on the quay beside the ship.

"'Ave you actually seen 'im go up a gangplank yet?" Porthos asked, although he already thought he knew the answer.

"No," Aramis confirmed. "He's managed to avoid it."

"I 'ave a plan."

Aramis eyed him warily. "Are you sure? I mean no disrespect, but you aren't usually the one who does the planning."

Porthos sighed in exasperation. "I know but Athos is the one who plans. I can 'ardly march up to him an' ask if he's any bright ideas as to 'ow I can get him to board that ship now, can I?"

"Granted, so what do you propose? We've neither time, means nor coin enough to get him drunk."

"So that means plan B," Porthos grinned. "We'll let Tréville in on it so 'e doesn't go shootin' Athos by accident."

"That's very thoughtful of you," Aramis said, not sounding too convinced, "but what does it entail?"

"Everyone else gets on board 'cept us three so Athos thinks they're about to sail without 'im."

"But won't he suspect something when we remain with him?"

"No, we'll come chargin' along the quay like we've nearly missed it. You distract 'im; I'll punch 'im 'ard, knock 'im out, sling 'im over my shoulder an' carry 'im on board." He seemed very pleased with his solution.

"And when he wakes up?" Aramis was trying to think ahead.

"'E'll be fine. He might be a bit sore but 'e'll be on board and the Captain won't have to 'ave shot 'im."

"He'll hate us and he'll be very angry. Given how he's behaving at present and that we don't understand why, we have no idea how he might react."

Porthos sobered at the problem. "Then we'll 'ave some rope 'andy an' we'll tie him down."

Before Aramis could object loudly to such extreme measures, another voice distracted them.

"Mornin', boys."

They turned to see the new arrival, their concerned expressions breaking into a warm smile of welcome.

"Morning, Claude," Aramis greeted the older soldier whilst Porthos nodded his salutation.

"The Cap'n sent me to bring you this; 'e was wonderin' if it might 'elp things along," and he held out Tréville's bottle of brandy. "It's not quite 'alf full but it might be enough to calm 'im a bit," and he inclined his head to where Athos toiled in silent misery.

"He's a good man," Porthos meant the Captain.

"Aye, an' he knows a good soldier when 'e sees one an' he wants this one on board."

"So do we," Aramis acknowledged as he ran a frustrated hand through his hair, tangled as it was by the wind.

"Whyn't you let me 'ave a go?" Claude offered cheerily.

"Be our guest," Aramis acceded. "If you get anywhere with him, you'll be a better man than the Captain and us put together."

"Don't be so 'ard on yourselves," Claude chuckled. "Has it ever occurred to you boys why 'e won't open about 'imself?" He turned to look back briefly at Athos who now seemed determined to exhaust himself with the speed at which he was working and hoisting the sacks alone.

"Why don't you tell us?" Porthos invited when he could not voice a suitable explanation himself.

"You're too close, all of you. The Cap'n now, 'e's got a vested interest in the boy an' can see that, despite everythin', he's the makin's of a fine soldier an' leader, if 'e could but get 'is head on straight. We all know 'e turned up at the garrison with a barrowful of problems; 'appen the Cap'n might know some of 'em but I reckon none of you know all of it an' maybe you never will so if you're goin' to stay friends an' all, you 'ave to accept 'im like it. That boy's troubled in a way I ain't seen in many a year; it goes deep an' it 'urts like 'ell. 'E buries it because, likely as not, 'e doesn't know 'ow to cope with it. He doesn't want the Cap'n to know because 'e doesn't want to disappoint the man. I saw 'ow he was all that time in the Captain's tent yesterday an' 'e was tearin' himself apart, unlike that Dela-what'sisname."

The two younger musketeers could not hide their smiles at the older soldier's inability to remember Delacroix' name. Neither of them would have been so polite.

"An' he certainly won't tell you because 'e's scared of losin' you," Claude continued, satisfied by the obvious surprise that registered on the faces of the two men. "Anyone with any sense can see 'ow far you three boys 'ave come as friends and brothers. You've made an impact on 'im since 'e arrived an' all to the good an' the way I see it is he's terrified you'll turn your backs on 'im if you knew the whole truth."

The two young men ruminated on his words in silence.

"We would never do that," Aramis said determinedly.

"I know that, you know that an' I reckon the Cap'n knows that too but 'e doesn't, not yet. If I've got 'im read right, he's lost a lot in the past an' with you boys, he now knows as how 'e can't bear to lose anythin' or anyone else."

"When did you get to be so wise, Claude?" Aramis said softly.

Claude chuckled again. "They say as 'ow it comes with age an' I reckon I've got more'n a few years' head start on you boys."

Brandishing the brandy bottle in salute, he turned on his heels and walked to meet Athos. The other two watched the first exchange and initially feared that Athos would not respond but Claude apparently had a persuasive personality for the next thing they saw was the seasoned soldier slip an arm around Athos' shoulder and lead him to a low wall along the quayside where they sat. Porthos looked at Aramis with a raised eyebrow for they both knew that Athos was not a particularly tactile person, yet he had not shied from the older man's arm.

Not wanting their friend to notice them as observers, they focused upon the work in hand, not conscious of the passing of time. They had finished unloading the cart at last and were looking around to see if any other tasks remained to delay their embarkation but it was clear that musketeers were finally boarding now. The time for departure was imminent. Tréville was waiting at the foot of the gangplank, supervising final arrangements as he surreptitiously looked in their direction to see if any progress was being made.

Suddenly, Claude stood and walked towards them, his face expressionless. Unaware that they were doing so, they both held their breaths, wondering what he was going to tell them. As he joined them, he held out the empty brandy bottle and grinned.

"He's ready to go on board with you now so you'd better hurry up afore he changes his mind."

"Is he drunk?" Aramis speculated.

"No, not enough brandy for that," Claude said.

Porthos reached for his hand and shook it vigorously in his relief. "Thank you, Claude. What on earth did you say to him? Did he give you any reason?"

"Ah now," the older man answered, "what was said between 'im an' me stays between 'im an' me; I'll not be breakin' his confidence. Maybe he'll tell you in his own good time. All I will say is if I was him, I wouldn't be thinkin' about getting' on that ship any time soon either. At least you won't be needin' the rope you boys were talkin' about."

Having delivered his astonishing pronouncement he turned and walked back towards the gangplank and paused a while to speak with Tréville – no doubt he was updating the Captain as to whether or not he had achieved any success with the defiant musketeer.

"You heard the man, let's go," Aramis said, heading towards their friend who still sat morosely on the wall.

Athos raised his head and saw them moving towards him. He stood just as they drew level.

"You ready?" Aramis asked gently, still concerned at the sight of Athos. He was white, beads of sweat breaking on his brow even as they stood there and his breathing ragged as he obviously struggled to control a deep-seated terror. "We're with you, you know that?"

"Come on, let's go," Porthos encouraged, moving into position on the other side of him so that he had no opportunity for flight if he changed his mind. Placing a hand at the other man's elbow ostensibly to guide him, Porthos was prepared to change that to a forceful grip if he thought Athos were about to resist.

The three moved slowly towards Tréville and the bottom of the gangplank where Athos halted as the vessel rose on a large swell and the means to board shifted alarmingly.

"Come on, son. You can do it," Tréville urged.

Without a word, Athos tried to step backwards and abruptly came up against a human wall.

"I've got your back. You won't fall an' I won't let anythin' happen to you. Aramis is bringin' up the rear. We're both here for you, you hear me? Just a few steps an' you're on board. A little while an' we'll be getting off the other end. We can still see the island; it's not far." He laid a hand on Athos' back to spur him on and was worried at the excessive trembling he felt coursing through the other man's slender frame.

Refusing to meet anyone's eyes by fixing his own upon the moving gangplank, Athos took several deep breaths and steadied himself to go on board, Porthos close behind. Aramis watched their progress and gave a sigh of relief.

"That wasn't so bad," he said as he drew level with the Captain.

"Agreed so I doubt that the gangplank alone is the issue," Tréville concurred. "Let's get on board and cast off. The sooner we do that, the sooner we get there."

As Aramis stood back to let Tréville precede him, neither of them could have known that the Captain's words could not have been farther from the truth. With conditions deteriorating fast, the crossing would neither be fast nor comfortable.

Aramis move across the deck to join his friends whom, he presumed, had already gone below. He had just reached the head of the steep stairs when there was a commotion below. In the gloom, he could see Athos and Porthos struggling together on the wooden structure.

"Easy, calm down!" Porthos cried out as Athos scrambled back up the stairs and burst past Aramis before staggering to the vessel's side, turning and sliding down into a sitting position on the deck, breathing hard.

"What happened?" Aramis asked as Porthos joined him.

Porthos shrugged. "You tell me. I was followin' him down the stairs onto the deck below when he refused to move and fought me to get out. 'E said 'e wouldn't stay down there. I can understan' that; there's so many crammed in there, it's already 'ot an' smellin'. The air's stale."

Aramis walked over to where Athos sat against the ship's side, knees drawn up and his arms wrapped round them, hugging them. He rested his head on his knees as he worked to steady his breathing. Aramis squatted in front of him.

"What happened then?"

"I couldn't stay down there," Athos answered, his voice almost normal sounding.

"You know in this storm it is going to be very cold and very wet out here. It may even become dangerous. We might be advised to go below."

Athos shook his head vehemently. "Never. I'll tie myself to something but I am not going below. I couldn't breathe down there."

"I understand," Aramis said. "I'm going to take a turn about the deck, see what is around us. We've cast off." Athos' eyes widened, not having realised that they were moving any more than when docked. "We'll be hitting the open sea shortly; it'll be rougher then."

He stood and rejoined Porthos a few feet away. "Stay with him. I will not be long."

"Where are you going?"

Aramis looked back over his shoulder at the forlorn figure. "I'm going to see what I can find. We could do with a bucket."

Porthos raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"Look at his colour now," Aramis instructed. Porthos did so.

"He's green! I've heard people talk of it but I've never actually seen it. He's green!"

"Yes and how long have we been on board? We haven't even got to open water yet. Given his state of panic and the brandy he's swiftly downed, I fear it won't be long before we need that bucket!"


	23. Chapter 23

_**Dear all, thank you so much for the response to chapter 22; it has been overwhelming and so encouraging. Claude appears to have touched lots of hearts and I have no doubt he will be making other appearances later in the story. His inability to recall Delacroix' name was 'un homage' to Rita Marx' ingenious variations on a theme which have afforded me much amusement!**_

 _ **You are all eager to know what it is that seems to have unsettled Athos in the extreme and made him irrationally fearful. In the latter half of this chapter, all is revealed; I hope that you will consider that it has been worth the wait and speculation on your parts. Claude probably would have had a truncated version but here, at last, Athos opens up to his brothers and they gain a little more insight into what has shaped him as a man; it is my creation and I hope that you will feel that it is in keeping with his character.**_

 _ **The next chapter sees them settling on Ile de Re to await the English.**_

CHAPTER 23

Porthos was exhausted with trying to keep up a one-sided conversation with his friend, anything to distract him from the rolling of the ship in the open sea. It had been evident the moment they had left the relative safety of the harbour; it was as if they had hit an invisible wall, first ahead of them and then to the side as the turbulent wind filled the sails. The vessel was seemingly in a precarious lean to port as it rose on a great swell, the bow pointing first towards the slate-grey sky and then into the charcoal depths as it plunged into a trough.

The rain had started to fall almost as soon as they moved from the quayside and their cloaks, unfortunately, were with the rest of their belongings stowed safely in a hold. They had not seen fit to keep them with them as they toiled on the quayside. Already, Porthos was cold and wet but his discomfort was nothing compared with his concern over the change in Athos over the course of a few minutes. Certainly, from where the swordsman sat on the deck, he could not see the angry sea but its every move was communicated through the hull and decks and into his body. His eyes were closed, his head resting back against the wood as he breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. All the while he swallowed convulsively and his body was rigid with tension.

Porthos was just wishing that Aramis would quickly return when the marksman chose that moment to reappear, whistling cheerfully even though he was drenched, had removed his hat for fear of losing it in the wind and his wet hair was plastered round his face.

"Greetings, my fellow travellers. I come bearing gifts," and he deposited a bucket on the deck.

Athos opened an eye, saw what had been placed by his side and closed the eye again. "What's that for?" he asked unnecessarily, the words grinding out from between clenched teeth.

"Oh I don't know," Aramis continued cheerily. "We could amuse ourselves by making various suggestions. I'll start – I could turn it upside down and use it as a seat!"

Whilst Porthos sniggered at the notion, Athos groaned.

"Go away, the pair of you. Leave me in peace," he begged.

"Porthos," Aramis ordered and gestured to the big musketeer that they should move away. He went only as far as the opposite side of the ship and clung to the rail as he looked out at the heaving sea and wondered if that was how Athos' insides felt. As for himself, he was totally unaffected; if anything, he was finding the tempestuous conditions exhilarating. However, mindful of the detrimental effect the storm was having on some of his brothers, he muttered a rapid, heartfelt prayer and raised the crucifix that hung about his neck to his lips.

"Should we leave him?" Porthos asked anxiously as he joined him at the rail.

"We've not exactly gone far. Right now, he must be feeling absolutely wretched. He just wants some privacy," Aramis reassured him.

Even as he spoke, an uncomfortably familiar sound behind them made them turn. Athos was helplessly doubled over the bucket.

Aramis gave a wry smile. "I'll stay with him. You go and get some fresh water; there's a barrelful on the next deck."

It was some minutes before Porthos returned with a cup brimming with cold water. His nose was wrinkled with disgust.

"Don't send me down for any more. It's rank down there. Loads of 'em are like 'im. 'E is better up 'ere on deck, even if it is cold and wet."

Aramis took the cup and crouched beside the stricken man. "Drink," he urged but Athos shook his head and turned away, teeth clenched against the waves of nausea that assaulted him with each rise and fall of the vessel.

An hour or more passed and they had still not made land. Aramis stood at the rail once more and looked out towards the island. He was convinced now that they were not getting any closer to the harbour of Saint Martin that was visible to port. The rain had ceased at long last but the wind remained strong, taunting and tearing at the canvas sails whilst the powerful waves continued to pound the hull.

"Fresh air at last," said Tréville, joining him and staring out at the view.

"Have you been below deck all this time?" Aramis asked, a note of incredulity in his voice.

The Captain nodded. "Until I could stand it no more. Over half the regiment must have succumbed to seasickness by now. I hope the English are in as sorry a state as us."

"England is an island," Aramis went on with a worried shake of the head, "and they pride themselves in being a seafaring nation. It is rumoured that as soon as an English child starts walking, it is with the rolling gait of the seaman."

"Well I hope those who have said this are wrong," growled the Captain, "for I can't see most of our force being capable of wielding any weapons for a good twenty-four hours or more. We're not exactly a fine example of reinforcements at present." He looked about him. "You are well?"

"Indeed," Aramis grinned. "I am finding the circumstances most …" He sought for a word. "…bracing!" Tréville snorted with amusement at the understatement, especially as he knew just how any of his men would not agree with the description.

"And the others?" He glanced to where Porthos crouched next to Athos who chose just that moment to retch noisily into the bucket that he held tightly to his chest.

"Porthos is fine, although he is finding the role of carer a trifle taxing on this occasion and as for Athos…" he smiled fondly. "Well, he alternates between begging us to shoot him and threatening to jump overboard and swimming to shore."

"He would probably get there faster," Tréville noted drily.

"I have noticed that we are not making any obvious headway at present."

"The entrance to the harbour at Saint Martin is narrow at the best of times. The Captain of the ship dare not risk trying to enter in this sea for fear of dashing us against the harbour wall or on the rocks to the north east so he says we must remain here until the winds die down," Tréville explained.

"So near and yet so far," Aramis breathed. "In the meantime, it is sheer torture for the likes of Athos. He is exhausted with the sickness and it is a long time since he has had anything to bring up; his brain and stomach are addled with the constant violent movement of the ship."

"We will get ashore as soon as we can. Do you have anything that might help him and the other men?" Tréville asked.

"I have relevant herbs stowed somewhere with the other medical supplies but we would have to wait until they were unloaded. I will have to brew a large quantity for all of them and it is going to take some time."

"It is a priority to find those supplies and get some medicine made up; that is your task. We will need to get those men onto firm ground as soon as possible; their senses will probably be reeling for some little while afterwards. I fear unloading will be a slow business for we will not be able to count on them." Tréville watched as Porthos gently pushed back the wet tendrils of hair from Athos' face and again encouraged him to take a sip of water which was steadfastly refused once more. "Has he said anything to you yet by way of explanation?"

Aramis followed Tréville's gaze to where it rested upon the miserable musketeer. "No, although Claude says Athos told him. He would not repeat it to us. Did he to you?"

"No," Tréville answered. "Claude would not break a confidence. That is one of the traits in the man that I have so admired over the years, even though it can be most annoying, like now." He gave Aramis a warm smile. "If Athos should ever tell you, I would like to think that you would be able to enlighten me. We are all familiar with his stubbornness but today smacks of deeper, haunting memories."

"If we are to stay out here any longer, a tale might be most edifying if we could but get him to relate it. My only hope is that he feels so dejected and vulnerable at present that his guard is down and he shares what is troubling him. I promise you that, unless he swears us to binding secrecy as well, you will be the first to know."

Tréville nodded. "With that I shall have to be satisfied. Good luck. For now, I shall occupy myself with trying to make my way around the deck to see who else is up here. Quite a number were abandoning the dire conditions below to face the elements. I fear we will be expected to swill the decks before we are allowed to disembark." The officer made his unsteady way towards the stern on the pitching deck as Aramis frowned at the import of his words.

Determined that now was as good a time as any to attempt to elicit information from Athos, he crossed to where his two friends were. With an unspoken signal to Porthos, he sighed and carefully lowered himself down onto the wet planking of the deck on one side of Athos as the big musketeer positioned himself on the other, the shoulders of both making contact with their unhappy friend in an unspoken message of comfort and consolation.

Dipping his head and pulling his hat further down over his eyes to protect himself from another shower of freezing sea spray as a large wave broke against the side of the vessel, Aramis spoke loudly to make himself heard. "Don't you think it is about time you told us what is going on?" He felt Athos stiffen beside him. "I find it hard to believe you want to stay out here because of seasickness."

"Yeah," Porthos agreed, maintaining a humorous lightness in his tone rather than the heartfelt gripe he was longing to make. "If I'm goin' to risk gettin' washed overboard or goin' down with some awful fever on account of bein' soaked, I'd like to know why."

"I didn't ask you to stay with me," was Athos' predictable response and they immediately wanted to shake some sense into him. However, there was no ire in his tone, merely a soft sadness which they heard nonetheless.

"I know," Aramis agreed, "but it is clear to us that all is not well with you."

"More than usual," Porthos interrupted. Aramis scowled at him over the bowed head between them.

"We probably can do nothing to help but at least we might understand," Aramis persisted but there was little or no reaction from the man on his right. "Anyway, that's what friends do; they stick together. This is out of character, even for you, so here we are, ready to listen."

They fell quiet for a while and Aramis feared that Athos was not going to respond, either because he was feeling so ill that he was incapable of speaking or because he was making the conscious decision not to share his brooding thoughts. Another large wave hit the side of the ship, the resultant shower eliciting a shocked gasp from all of them, a cold shiver running through them simultaneously. Perhaps it was that and the timely reminder that his two companions were ready to endure anything to help him that induced Athos to break his silence, or perhaps it was merely because he had already shared his story once before that day.

"I had just turned fifteen," he said suddenly, his eyes resolutely on the planking beyond his feet where he had temporarily placed the bucket. "As a continuation of the celebrations, I was to accompany my father on a trip; some sort of business. A necessary part of my education, he called it. I had journeyed with him on other occasions and although he was a strict man, I found those times with him, just the two of us, were so precious."

Aramis and Porthos tried to conceal their expressions of surprise for they had not anticipated that an explanation would be so quickly forthcoming, especially after so many other fruitless attempts to encourage him to share that which troubled him so profoundly.

"Two days before we were due to leave, my tutor informed him that I had fallen behind in my studies and was not meeting expectations. I was given no opportunity to defend myself. My father simply changed his mind, as was his prerogative, and announced that I would not be joining him but had to focus on my learning instead in order to regain a higher standard. My younger brother, Thomas, was to go in my place. I was bitterly disappointed but could not be jealous of Thomas. It was the first time he was to go with our father and he was so excited; his noisy enthusiasm was driving our mother to distraction as she was giving instructions regarding the preparations for their departure."

His two friends had long suspected that Athos' family were moneyed from his speech and general comportment but this talk of business trips and a personal tutor only served to confirm those suspicions. They were desperate to delve deeper with the myriad of questions that rose to mind but instinct had them bite their tongues. Already Athos had disclosed more in a couple of minutes than he had done in years about his background and so, eager to learn more, they were content to maintain their silence and just let him talk. To press him would surely guarantee that he would raise his defences again.

"Father had decided that he did not want to ride south across country but chose instead to ride west to the coast and take a ship sailing southwards. So they left, joined by my father's brother. I was particularly close to my uncle and on the rare occasions his duties enabled him to visit, I spent hours listening to the stories of his military adventures, much to my father's chagrin. He considered my uncle a bad influence on me, filling my head with nonsense and irrelevances for, being the younger brother, he was a soldier, an officer; I have found out since that Treville knew him.

"Anyway, less than two days after leaving port, their ship was hit by a huge storm and foundered on rocks. Most of those on board perished, including my uncle who was trapped below deck."

There lay the reason for his refusal to quit the upper deck then.

"My father and brother were listed as missing, believed dead, for many days, long enough for news to be brought to the house. My mother, immediately overwhelmed with grief, took to her bed whilst I was left to cope with the many people who came offering their condolences or seeking advice and decisions that they would have procured from my father.

"We could have helped and comforted each other – I was just fifteen and bereaved too. All I wanted was to feel her arms around me, to hear her say that we would be strong together, to receive some soft word, but she refused to see me and left me to cry alone in the night-time because too many people depended upon me to be brave by day."

His two friends sat stunned, trying to picture Athos the boy alone and crying himself to sleep at night, devoid of warmth and loving comfort at such a traumatic time as he fought for the internal strength to be Athos the man in the cold light of day.

He gave a bitter laugh. "My own mother sent me a written message via the family doctor to tell me that she could not abide seeing me for I reminded her too much of all that she had lost. What kept going through my mind was that it could have been me who had died and not my brother, who was so fun-loving, lively and already beloved of everyone; it would have been me lost in the tempest had my father not changed his mind. A part of me was glad, relieved that I had not been on board and thereby spared a horrible fate but then I was wracked with contrition. How could I be so selfish when my father, brother and uncle had all perished? In the darkness, I would lie awake imagining the last minutes of terror my little brother must have endured.

"At that time, I was still able to pray and believe that God heard my intercessions so I would spend the hours before dawn on my knees by my bed, beseeching God that He had found a way for Thomas and my father to be together at the last; I could not bear to think of either of them dying alone."

Aramis and Porthos exchanged a horrified glance, wondering where this tale of personal tragedy was to end and already identifying the first causes of guilt that were to grow, fester and eat away at the man whom they had befriended.

"Over a week elapsed from us receiving the news to the sudden return of my father and Thomas, both of whom had washed up on shore further along the coast; Father had received slight injuries and Thomas developed a chill. Both completely unaware of the devastating message that had been sent to my mother, they did not think to send another but waited until they were both well enough to obtain a coach to bring them home. Father had misguidedly decided not to burden us with worry for their wellbeing, oblivious to the fact that we believed them dead.

"The damage was done. Although delighted to see them, my mother never fully recovered and we buried her within the year. My father had lost the love of his life and it was clear that his two sons were not enough for him so, four years later and ten days short of my twentieth birthday, he joined her."

Athos' voice had sunk so low that the other two were forced to incline their heads closer to his if they were to stand any chance of hearing him above the wind. He had steadfastly refused to make eye contact with either of them and all three were painfully aware that this was by far the most he had ever revealed to them about his past, not least in one conversation.

"And what of Thomas now?" Aramis pressed. Neither he nor Porthos had ever found out what had propelled their friend to seek a commission in the King's regiment but they had seen his propensity for self-destruction from his arrival and had not given up as he repeatedly spurned their overtures of companionship, eventually wearing him down so that he began, reluctantly, to socialise with them and, ultimately, to accept them in return.

From that first seed, over time, a fragile friendship had sprouted, experiencing a growth spurt in the aftermath of the Savoy massacre from which Aramis emerged as the sole survivor. As he was severely traumatised emotionally and suffering a head injury, Porthos and Athos had combined forces to care for him through the long healing process, the needs of the recovering musketeer doing much to distract Athos from his own demons.

Aramis and Porthos had been aware of the existence of a younger brother but they could seldom ask direct questions of their friend, having seen, all too often, a defensive and dismissive wall erected behind which this intensely close and private man retreated, refusing to be drawn by their curiosity. They had learned - and preferred - to bide their time and await a deliberate, throw-away comment or one made in an uncommonly unguarded moment of drunkenness. Even in his cups, though, Athos had the ability to exercise a frightening control over what he said and did.

The most significant information he had imparted was that there had once been a woman in his life but that she was lost in the months before seeking his commission so that they assumed much of his anguish resulted from what they presumed was her premature but, as yet, unexplained death. The disclosures he was making now were rare and to be much valued by his listeners but what they were learning only served to fuel the need to ask more questions than ever before.

Athos looked stricken by the query and swallowed convulsively. "Dead," he announced, his voice void of emotion. Aramis was about to add a sympathetic rejoinder, sad that there seemed to be no remaining family, when he spoke again. "Murdered, less than three years ago."

Aghast, Aramis wondered how much more heartache could be endured by this man. "And was the perpetrator ever brought to justice?"

Words now failing him, Athos closed his eyes and gave a swift nod of affirmation. Suddenly, he reached for the bucket by his feet, his knuckles white as he gripped it tightly and lost control again of his rebellious stomach.


	24. Chapter 24

_**Dear all,**_

 _ **Apologies for the two-week silence but work demands have been very heavy and will not lighten for another couple of weeks so this chapter has been very slow in the making (it's taken over a week as it is.) Please meet Captain Mordain today; he is my creation. I have put a number of historical notes at the end but hope to minimize them over subsequent chapters; they are there if you'd like to have a bit more background or you want to ascertain what is fact and what is my fiction. I hope you enjoy it after the delay.**_

CHAPTER 24

Tréville was led through the upper levels of the Citadel noting, as he went, that areas of the fortification were, as yet, incomplete and he felt the first stirrings of concern as to whether it could be adequately defended if it were to come under attack. He hoped that the outer walls at the very least were impregnable as instructions to reinforce the stronghold had been issued by Richelieu himself in the aftermath of the previous Huguenot rebellion. Two years on and with a considerable financial outlay, the Citadel was now at the front line of defence against the English and it needed to be reliable as a fortress for the men who were ensconced within its battlements and immediately beyond.

The soldier accompanying him eventually halted before a set of stout, wooden, double doors adorned with heavy metal hinges and an elaborate latch. The man, painfully young-looking, rapped sharply on the wood and, on hearing a curt summons to enter, pushed open the door and stood back to allow Tréville to pass him.

The Captain found himself in a large room with a timber floor, ornately carved panelling on the walls and a high ceiling. There all ostentation and comfort ended. The room was cold, even though a large, stone-surround fireplace was a focal point on one long wall. Being July, it remained unlit but even on the hottest day, any warmth from the sun's rays would be hard-pressed to permeate the ever-present chill. For now, a watery light infiltrated the room through its dual-aspect windows, the sky remaining overcast but at last devoid of any trace of the dark clouds that had been prevalent for the greater part of the day.

Furnishings were limited but of superior quality. In the two years that he had been the Governor of the island, Jean Caylar d'Anduze de Saint-Bonnet, Marquis do Toiras, had brought familiar objects from home but they were more functional than decorative and the absence of a woman's hand was obvious. A tapestry adorned the wall behind the enormous, dark mahogany desk at the far end of the room. Two upholstered chairs and a high-backed wooden settle were placed in a semi-circle in front of the fireplace, a low table before them. A heavily carved chest stood against the wall opposite the fireplace and between two of the plain windows, whilst a large cabinet graced a corner of the room, storage for the plethora of documents that life within the Citadel initiated.

All this detail was absorbed by the seasoned officer in a matter of seconds as he heard the doors close behind him.

"Tréville!" a deep voice boomed. Toiras rose to his feet. Slightly shorter than the musketeer officer, he was, at forty years of age, no less an imposing figure. A thick mane of carefully curling hair fell to his shoulders, gracing the broad, white collar with its fine edge of elaborate lace that matched the cuffs turned back over the pale brown doublet. The immaculate grooming was further evident in the delicately trimmed moustache and the clipped, pointed goatee that lengthened his elegant face. Beaming, he came round from behind his desk, hand outstretched in a warm greeting. Grasping the Captain's hand, he pumped it in an enthusiastic welcome. "It's good to see you again."

The man's personality was infectious and Tréville could not contain his own broad smile in response. "The feeling's mutual, Governor."

"Pity it's under such circumstances, what? Never mind, between us we'll teach these English a lesson they'll not forget in a hurry."

"Let's hope so, Governor," Tréville agreed, flexing his fingers to restore feeling after the bone-crushing handshake.

"Let me introduce you to Captain Philippe Mordain; he arrived with four hundred infantrymen a few days ago." Toiras indicated a tall, stern-looking man of similar age to Tréville. Both Captains dipped their heads in salutation.

"I have heard much about you and the King's Musketeers," Mordain said, his expression reflecting a genuine interest and respect. "I look forward to seeing them in action."

"I thank you and trust that they will not disappoint," Tréville acknowledged. He turned his attention back to the Governor. "How many men do we have all told?"

Toiras gestured to the seats by the fireplace and settled himself into one of the heavily upholstered chairs as he spoke, "With Mordain's troop, we have twelve hundred infantrymen and your musketeers double my cavalry to two hundred."

Tréville lowered himself onto the hard settle, leaving the other more comfortable chair to Mordain. "Fourteen hundred then. Do we know anything of the English numbers?"

Toiras shook his head. "Hard to say at present; the enemy fleet is still assembling. No doubt the storm has had an impact upon their arrival. Lookouts keep me updated on the number of vessels but the total changes all the time as more arrive. They do seem to be convening around the south-eastern end of the island and the latest report puts them at about a hundred ships; some ten men o' war and the rest merchantmen from the looks of them. If they're all carrying soldiers, we could be looking at an invasion force of well in excess of six thousand men."

The Musketeer Captain whistled through his teeth at the prospect of being outnumbered to such an extent. "Are we expecting an assault upon Ré first or do you think his intent is to relieve La Rochelle?"

"We can't discount either," Toiras said firmly. "I would wager, though, that he is wanting to take the island to establish a base; I'm surprised that he hasn't paid attention to the island of Oléron instead as we have no forces there at all and it certainly does not have the defences of Ré. It was, after all, taken by Soubise in twenty-five along with Ré during the last Huguenot rebellion. The Cardinal has at least one intelligencer inside La Rochelle but I do not know how regularly he will be able to get any reliable information from that source. With the size of the English fleet, I have no doubt that Buckingham will set up some sort of blockade in which case we will effectively be cut off from the mainland."

"What do we know of Buckingham?" Mordain asked.

Tréville was surprised by the question and wondered how long the other man had held his rank for it was only two years since Buckingham had been at the French court and he remembered the English Duke with startling clarity.

"He is a very powerful man in England; a close advisor of King Charles, perhaps the closest and that does not necessarily bode well for he was also a favourite of the young King's father, James. He has the monarch's trust and is empowered to do much but he is not well-liked in many quarters. That much is evident from the informants we have there. He was welcomed to the French court the year before last at the marriage by proxy of Louis' sister, Henrietta Maria, to Charles and then he escorted her to her new country. It is clear, though, that he is no strategist in military matters; it is no secret that he led a disastrous campaign to Cadiz," Toiras explained.

"Have we much to fear from him in that case?" Mordain wanted to know.

"Do not underestimate him," the Governor continued. "If he has the man power, the financial resources to sustain a long campaign and military advisors with him to whom he listens, we could find ourselves facing a very difficult time ahead."

"What are your orders at this stage?" Tréville inquired. "I have come directly from the harbour and have left my men disembarking and unloading our equipment."

"How soon will they be ready to take on duties?"

Tréville sighed. "If needed, I can provide some men tonight. However, over half my men have been felled by seasickness. They're not in a fit state even to help unload and set up our camp now but I anticipate that they will be fully operational tomorrow."

The Governor smiled sympathetically. "I am sorry that you were delayed without our harbour walls; it cannot have been pleasant for your men and I wish them a speedy recovery. Get yourselves settled today and I will call upon you and your musketeers tomorrow to go on patrol."

"That is gracious of you, Governor. I am grateful; thank you." Tréville was relieved. With Aramis providing medicinal aid to settle the queasy stomachs and a good night's sleep, he had no reason to think that his men would not be well enough to resume duties the following morning.

As he left the Citadel, he went to the area outside the walls designated for the Musketeer camp was pleased to see that much had been achieved under Savatier's instruction in his absence. Most of the horses were tethered in a wide open area and grazing quietly but a few, still unsettled by the stormy conditions, were circling nervously as their handlers endeavoured to calm them. Tents were being rapidly erected and fires lit as the men prepared to settle for the evening. He had just identified his command tent and was making his way towards it when his lieutenant appeared at his side. He quickly related what had been said at his meeting with the Governor as they walked.

Dusk was falling but it was darkness of another kind that distorted Savatier's features.

"This Buckingham is an arrogant, meddling fool," he almost spat out his disdain.

"That's as maybe but I would prefer to think of him as an arrogant, meddling danger nonetheless," Tréville warned. It crossed his mind that Savatier and Mordain were alike in their view and lack of understanding of the English Duke.

"How dare he think he can raise arms against the Catholic might of France. His own King has a Catholic Queen yet she is not given the respect that is her due!"

Tréville frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Buckingham is purportedly responsible for the sending home of Queen Henrietta's French entourage and overseeing their replacement with none but highborn Englishwomen. His hold and influence over the King of England is a worry but then he had an unnatural influence over the King's own father as well."

"Unnatural influence?" Tréville tried to appear nonchalant but there was a growing unease at what he was hearing. He had heard rumours at the French court about the Duke but they were at odds with what he had seen of the man who had easily charmed his way into the hearts of many of the female courtiers even though he was married and his daughter was three years old at the time.

"Come, Captain, you must have heard the stories of Buckingham's meteoric rise to his title and how he was the favourite of King James. Imbue the word 'favourite' with your own interpretation."

Tréville was taken aback. He had never heard the lieutenant gossip like this before and his tone when referring to the English Duke was nothing short of vitriolic. The Captain was beginning to develop grave misgivings about his second and wondered when the change in the man had taken effect for he was increasingly surly and disagreeable. Or was this the true man all along? Tréville questioned if his judgement really could have been so wrong.

"I wonder where you hear such things," he said as lightly as he could, endeavouring to put across an attitude of not taking the stories too seriously.

To his surprise, Savatier merely shrugged and focused on a distant point. "I have my sources. We don't all have to be members of the court's inner sanctum."

Was he criticising Tréville? Was it a challenge to his authority and his advisory capacity to Louis? Who were these 'sources' of whom he spoke so cryptically? The musketeer Captain felt distinctly uncomfortable.

"But it is expedient to question one's sources and their reliability, rather than accept it at face value."

"I can assure you that my sources are valid, even when they spoke of the Duke's indiscreet behaviour towards our own Queen," Savatier was making a point.

Tréville stopped and rounded upon his lieutenant. "You speak of that which you should not know."

Had someone in the immediate court circle talked inappropriately? How much did Savatier actually know or was he exaggerating the little information to which he was privy? Tréville dare not probe too deeply lest he give anything more away but both he and Richelieu were aware of the written communication he had attempted with Queen Anne and that he had been discouraged from making a quick, return visit to the French court. It had been a serious enough subject of debate that had united the two men who were, at other times, frequently at odds with each other.

"Buckingham has consistently behaved in a way that he should not. How can he be here on a diplomatic mission at a royal wedding and conduct himself in that manner? The same year, he provides Louis with English ships in a move against the Huguenots but now what does he do? He leads a fleet of ships bringing soldiers this time to aid the Huguenots in an act against Charles' Catholic brother-in-law. The man is a warmonger and must be stopped."

"God's blood, Savatier! What are you saying?"

"That Buckingham should be stopped by any means possible."

"Isn't that what we are doing? Readying a force to face the English invasion to stop them?"

Savatier did not respond but stared at Tréville as though he could not believe the apparent innocence of the Captain's question. The disconcerting expression was gone in an instant and Tréville, thoroughly disquieted, could not help but wonder whether or not he had imagined it.

"I will check on the watch," the lieutenant said coldly.

"And I will do my rounds and see if the ill men are recovering," Tréville said and watched as Savatier walked off.

Deep in thought, Tréville began to wander amongst his men, spending time with them and talking to each. It was not long before he found himself at the tent shared by the _Inseparables._ Aramis and Porthos were sitting outside talking quietly together but as they saw him approach, they moved to stand.

He extended a hand. "As you were," and they immediately relaxed. "I am making my last rounds for the night and thought to check on those who had a bad crossing." He looked past them into the tent. "How is he?"

"See for yourself," Aramis indicated with a little smile. "Sound asleep."

Athos lay on his side and, from the outline of his body beneath the blanket pulled up to his chin, he was curled in a foetal position. Tréville frowned; there was nothing reassuring about this. From when they had been out in the field, Tréville had never known Athos to sleep 'soundly'. The slightest noise would have him wide awake and on alert, no matter how exhausted he seemed, and when the Captain had occasion to catch him in repose, he had always lain stretched out, never curled up as he was now. Such were the problems of the day, Tréville supposed.

"Has he taken any sustenance?" he asked.

"No food but he has had water and it's stayed down. I gave him a herbal draught and that seems to have helped. I took it round to everyone who was seasick." He looked behind him into the tent and hesitated. Exchanging a knowing look with Porthos, he reached for a pottery jug. "The herbal draught," he indicated. "I should check on those I went to earlier and administer some more if it is needed. If you don't mind, I could accompany you."

Tréville nodded and together they walked off slowly.

"Athos spoke to you?" he asked, guessing that the marksman had an ulterior motive for requesting that he accompany the Captain for he was quite capable of returning to the ill men on his own.

"Yes and I am sure that he would not object to my telling you; he omitted to say that he wanted us to keep it a secret."

The Captain chuckled, "I doubt he was in a fit state to think about that at the time."

They walked in companionable silence for a few moments and then Aramis retold Athos' tale. The older man shook his head in stunned disbelief.

"Athos said you knew his uncle?" Aramis queried.

"Yes but not well," Tréville replied. "Our paths had crossed two or three times. He was well-liked and respected by those who met him and especially his men; when I stop to think about it, I see a lot of him in Athos."

"Athos did seem to suggest that his uncle had a strong influence over him."

"I don't doubt it. He had just been made a captain shortly before his untimely death. I presumed that he had fallen in battle; I never thought he had died in such a manner. What a tragic waste!" Tréville paused as he thought about his troubled musketeer. "I wonder sometimes that Athos has turned out with even half the promise that he has; it is hard to think what else has happened to him but I suspect we still only know the half of it."

Aramis nodded his agreement. "Sadly, I think you are right. He carries a great burden beyond that which any man should bear and I just wish he would be more willing to accept our support. He is a good man but he does not seem to know that."

"I have no doubt that both you and Porthos will continue to tell him so," Tréville smiled.

"Daily, if he would but let us," Aramis asserted.

Together, they continued to move amongst the musketeers, relieved to find that all were recovering. As with Athos, water and much sleep were the order of the day. Eventually the two men had completed a circuit of the camp and found themselves standing outside the command tent.

"I had best get back to see how our own invalid fares," Aramis said lightly, having enjoyed the walk and conversation with his Captain. "I dare say you will have plenty for us to do tomorrow."

"Definitely. I would have you and Porthos ride out on a patrol in the morning. There will be others but I want you to pay particular attention to the north-east coastline."

"You think an invasion is imminent then?"

"The Governor believes so and there is no evidence for me to believe otherwise. The current position of the English fleet strongly suggests that they intend making this island their base," Tréville explained.

"Or they'll die trying," the younger musketeer asserted.

"Let's hope so," the Captain concurred, "but without too much French blood being spilled in the process."

"Porthos and I will leave at first light." Aramis turned to go but stopped. "You did not name Athos. You have another task for him?"

"I will find one that will keep him and the other afflicted men occupied without tiring them unnecessarily, just in case we are enjoined in battle before the day is out."

"A wise move. Well, I will bid you goodnight," and, with his fingertips brushing the brim of his hat by way of an informal salute, Aramis melted into the darkness.

Tréville watched him depart and then looked upwards at the night sky. There was no cloud cover at all; just an inky blackness that was peppered with thousands of miniscule lights. After the day's storm, the night was still and, if it remained so, it would present the English with ideal landing conditions. He felt a brief chill around his heart at the prospect.

Sighing heavily, he lifted the tent flap and made to enter when a movement in his peripheral vision attracted his attention. He paused, his eyes straining through the minimal light afforded by dying camp-fires and towards the darkness between two tents. The hairs prickled at the back of his neck as he felt sure that he was being watched. He waited, tense but alert, and was just beginning to convince himself that he had imagined the episode when he saw the figure shift position and disappear.

He could not be sure – he was too far away and there was not enough light – but he thought he knew the identity of the silent watcher and he hoped with all his might that he was wrong!

 **A/N**

 **Richelieu did give orders for the Citadel fortifications to be improved in 1625.**

 **Toiras (1585-1636) became Governor of the island in 1625, following the rout of the second Huguenot rebellion.**

 **He had 1200 infantry and 200 cavalry to defend the island when Buckingham invaded on July 12th, 1627. The English numbered 7000.**

 **The English were originally delayed (having set sail in June) by bad weather and the temptation to go after pirate ships in the English Channel! The designation of ships are as found in a record.**

 **Buckingham ignored apparent advice to go to Oléron as it was not well fortified.**

 **Henrietta Maria was married by proxy to Charles I in May 1625, six months short of her sixteenth birthday. They were 'wed' again in Canterbury the following month but, as a Catholic, she was not crowned Queen in an Anglican service.**

 **Buckingham's behaviour at court at the time of the marriage by proxy is documented. Richelieu had been greatly angered by the Englishman. (The same document – and the only one I've come across thus far - hinted that he was somewhat 'fond' of the French Queen himself but was much older than her. I have not suggested that here as it is not in canon with Series 1 and Rochefort loved her intensely in Season 2.)**

 **Buckingham was not the villain of the piece as far as Henrietta's entourage was concerned. Charles had them packed off back to France in June 1626. The Queen, very open about her Catholicism, had been somewhat pro-active in supporting Catholics in a number of guises and was upsetting a lot of people as a result, not least when she stopped to pray at a tree at Tyburn where Catholics had been hanged! There was considerable tension in the royal marriage from the start until Buckingham was assassinated in 1628, whereupon it suddenly improved and the pair became greatly devoted to each other! The Queen was a key fundraiser in Europe to support her husband's cause in the English Civil War that began in 1642.**

 **Buckingham married Katherine Manners, Baroness de Ros, in 1620 and Mary (later Duchess of Richmond) was 3 at the time of the king's marriage. Her younger brother, Charles (!) died aged 16 months, just 4 months before the English assault on the Île de Ré. Another two brothers were to follow, the last being born after Buckingham's death.**

 **Buckingham did indeed have a meteoric rise to fame, being given 10 titles and positions in the 5 years after he met King James in 1614, aged 21. He was made Duke of Buckingham in 1623 and was the last in a line of handsome young favourites of the King. Edward Peyton wrote of their relationship: _"_ _the king sold his affections to Sir George Villiers, whom he would tumble and kiss as a mistress."_ In 1617, James himself wrote: " _You may be sure that I love the Earl of Buckingham more than anyone else, and more than you who are here assembled. I wish to speak in my own behalf and not to have it thought to be a defect, for Jesus Christ did the same, and therefore I cannot be blamed. Christ had John, and I have George."_ In 1623, James ended a letter to Buckingham with the words: _"God bless you, my sweet child and wife, and grant that ye may ever be a comfort to your dear father and husband."_ Buckingham responded with: _"I desire only to live in the world for your sake"_ and _"I will live and die a lover of you."_ There is nothing to suggest that a similar relationship developed between Buckingham and Charles.**


	25. Chapter 25

**_Dear all, thank you for the feedback on the last chapter. Mmm, some of you are really not fans of Savatier, are you? Met all my major work deadlines for last Friday so can now focus on some serious chapter writing before the next lot of deadlines! Only one main historical note for this chapter but I do urge you to glance at it as I don't want you to think I'm making up some crazy detail by the end!_**

CHAPTER 25

From where he sat on a fallen log which he had dragged to a position outside the tent, Porthos became aware of movement and sounds from within and it was not long before Athos appeared in the entrance, looking more than a little bemused.

"Evenin', sleepyhead," Porthos said warmly, pleased to see his friend up and moving.

"It's dark," Athos said somewhat obviously. "What's the time?"

Porthos looked about him as if he were searching for a time piece to materialise. "About ten," he guessed.

"What!" came the exclamation. "How long have I been asleep?"

"Close to four and a half hours by my reckoning." Porthos watched Athos rake his fingers through unruly, sleep-tousled hair. "Probably what you get on an average night," he added wryly.

"But what about the watch?" Athos clearly could not understand why he had been left to sleep for so long.

"Don't worry," Porthos attempted to set his mind at rest. "It's all in hand. How are you feeling?"

Athos thought for a moment, his brow furrowing as he did a rapid, internal body check. The ground was solid beneath his feet; the sickening sensation of constant movement that had been prevalent in his head even after disembarking had gone and the stomach-churning nausea was no longer evident.

"Hungry," he suddenly announced.

Porthos' face broke into a broad grin and he reached into the saddle bag on the ground at his side.

"I'm pleased to hear it; good job I saved you this then," and he produced a hunk of bread and two thick slices of cold beef. "I did think about taking some cheese too but Aramis didn't seem to think that was such a good idea." He eased along the log and patted the space he had created.

Nodding his thanks, Athos sat down next to him and broke off a piece of bread before putting it into his mouth warily. He was most definitely hungry but he still did not totally trust a full recovery of his rebellious insides. As he chewed on the bread and then took a small bite from the meat, Porthos cast a surreptitious, sidelong glance in his direction.

"You wish to say something?" Athos asked between mouthfuls.

Porthos hesitated. "I wanted to say thanks for tellin' us what you did. It can't have been easy."

Athos eyed him as a slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Not easy for a man of few words, you mean?" He shrugged. "No, it wasn't easy but I felt that I owed you an explanation for what must have seemed like foolish behaviour, especially when you were prepared to be so cold and wet as a result."

"I wouldn't call it foolish," Porthos reassured him and then flashed another wide smile. "Bizarre more like but then I've come to expect strange behaviour from you at times."

"Thanks," Athos replied drily, "I think."

Porthos suddenly became serious. "I can't even begin to think what it must have been like for you, losin' folk the way you did over the years. That incident with the ship was horrendous. Is that why you get so sick now, just at the mere thought of what happened?"

Athos stopped pulling the bread apart and stared at it as if he had never seen it before. "No, I've never been good at sea, although today has been the worst by far. My sickness used to tire my father's patience."

"An' he still insisted you went with him or used that transport knowin' what it did to you?"

Athos nodded. "My father's philosophy was that if you repeatedly faced your fear or whatever difficulty you had, you overcame it in the end."

Porthos snorted. "Hasn't worked with you then."

Athos allowed himself the smallest of smiles as his head dipped in embarrassment at the memory of the unfortunate journey from the mainland. "Apparently not, although my need for sea travel since then has been somewhat curtailed, partially through conscious decisions on my part. Recollections of that time do fill me with irrational horror and mental images; I wasn't even there but my father and brother gave very vivid accounts of what had happened so I firmly believe that it doesn't help me." He paused as an unbidden remembrance flooded back.

"My father was grief-stricken for months by the loss of his brother and blamed himself for not being able to save him. The ship had started breaking up and timber floor supports and decking from above had fallen across the doorway to my uncle's cabin. Water was pouring in and my father tried to shift it but was not strong enough. He shouted for help but others were intent upon saving their own lives. My uncle ordered my father to leave him; there was Thomas to think about and he was crying with terror. So my father had to make a choice, a hard one, but he had to put his son first. When I think about it now, it's probably the one unfortunate thing that my father and I actually have in common."

Porthos raised an eyebrow questioningly but said nothing, realising that he was privy to even more hitherto unknown information.

"My father was unable to protect and save his younger brother from drowning just as I was unable to see protect and save Thomas and we both carry the guilt; my father to his grave already. Me? I shall bear it to mine."

The big musketeer thought very carefully about the phrasing of his next question. "Was he always such a hard disciplinarian with you; your father, I mean?"

Athos' features clouded momentarily as if searching for his answer and then he grew wistful as he stared, unseeing, into the middle-distance. "No, not at all." A gentle smile played about his mouth and, to Porthos' surprise and horror, his green eyes welled up with sudden, unshed tears. "I have many happy memories of when I was a little boy, of spending time playing with my father. Then Thomas was born and, being that bit older, my role and position within the family changed. I was the firstborn son and there were increasing expectations of me as I grew up. I know that my father only wanted the best for me." Head bowed, his voice trailed off.

Porthos was dismayed to find that his innocent question had elicited such a reaction and, desperate to restore a more positive mood, he sought the words to encourage his desolate friend.

"It is sad for if he were alive to see you now, he would be so proud of the man you have become."

Athos' head snapped up and his response was vehement. "No! There would be no pride. He would be utterly ashamed of what I am and what I have done. I would be seen as nothing more than a total disgrace to him and the family."

He leapt to his feet and Porthos looked up at him, aghast that what he had said to hearten the other man had only served to worsen the situation; it was not what he had envisioned at all.

"That can't be so," he objected. "You're a man of principle; I don't know anyone who has the same level of integrity and honour as you. Never think ..."

"Don't, Porthos," Athos warned dangerously. "I thank you for your well-intentioned words but please do not try to speak of things about which you know nothing." His breath came in ragged, emotional gasps.

"Then why don't you enlighten me," Porthos said. He had meant it as an invitation, a means by which Athos could continue to disclose the deepest, most destructive elements that he kept in his heart but as the big musketeer stood abruptly to face his friend, his advantageous height seemed to give him an intimidating edge and Athos recoiled, stepping back to increase the space between them.

Heavens! Did he think that Porthos was going to strike or grab at him?

Porthos extended a hand beseechingly, endeavouring to right the perceived wrong. "Athos, I wasn't going ….."

"I'm tired," Athos interrupted tonelessly. "I'm going back to bed."

Porthos watched him depart and settle again in his bedding just as Aramis returned from his walk with the Captain.

"What's the matter?" inquired Aramis, his glance drifting from Porthos' pained expression to where Athos rolled over to face the canvas tent side, drawing his blanket up around his shoulders.

"We were talkin'," Porthos began miserably, "an' he seemed to be opening up some more but I s'pose I pushed 'im too far an' too soon with questions. I reckon all I've managed to do is make things a whole lot worse."

…

Aramis and Porthos rode out of camp together shortly after sunrise the following morning. On waking, Athos had been in - what was for him – a good mood and there appeared to be no residue of the sorrow of the preceding evening, for which Porthos was thankful. He had even eaten heartily as the three had broken their fast together, although a frown had later appeared when Tréville made it abundantly clear that he was not riding out with his brothers on patrol. His brief objections were overruled and he had accompanied them to where the horses were tethered, chatting easily with them as they saddled their mounts and prepared to leave. One hand on the bridle of Porthos' dark stallion to stay his departure and the other resting lightly on the man's knee presaged the need to communicate something and Athos looked up at his friend, green eyes troubled.

"Thank you for what you said last night; it meant much and I am sorry for how I responded."

"You have no need to apologise to me," Porthos replied earnestly. "The fault was mine, not knowin' when to keep silent. I did not stop to think that the memories would be so …" he floundered, trying to find the most appropriate word.

"Painful?" Athos volunteered. Porthos nodded. "It is no-one's fault but my own. I just wanted you to know that I valued you words. And now," he raised his voice and stepped back so that he could see both his friends easily, "off with the pair of you and try to stay out of trouble. I'm not sure what the Captain is thinking, letting both of you go without me there to keep an eye on you."

"He's probably thinking that they stand more of a chance of getting the task done by reducing the opportunity for idle talk," said a stern voice behind him.

Twisting round, Athos saw that it was Savatier who had approached quietly and stood observing them, arms folded and face devoid of any expression.

"Perhaps you should be turning your thought to the tasks that have been assigned you."

"I'm just going, Sir," Athos said as lightly as he could. With one last look at his friends and a dip of the head that conveyed so many unspoken words such as 'farewell' and 'stay safe', he headed back towards the other side of the camp where the ammunition stock was being guarded for he had been tasked to complete a rapid inventory to ensure that all powder kegs and boxes had been brought from the ship and their whereabouts known.

Porthos and Aramis had been in a contented silence for a while when Porthos, sounding relieved, was the first to speak.

"He seems more like his old self today," he commented.

"Do you mean Athos or Savatier?" Aramis asked, trying to conceal a smirk at his deliberate obtuseness.

Porthos snorted. "I was thinking more of Athos but I'd say both if it keeps you happy."

Aramis shook his head. "I agree with you about Athos. He's not slept as well as he did last night for a long time and he's eaten a decent breakfast; mind you, he must have been starving after yesterday. I'm not so sure that I agree with you on the lieutenant though. I'd go as far as saying he seems to be getting odder by the day."

"I'll admit he's not the friendliest of folk," Porthos began and, when he saw Aramis pull a face at the understatement, he amended what he was going to say. "All right, he's a cold fish but I wouldn't say he's getting' any worse. What d'you mean?"

Aramis shrugged. "I'm not sure; I just have this feeling and I can't fully explain it yet. He certainly has no time for Athos so now we need to watch him and Delacroix but last night, when I was walking with Tréville, we happened to meet him when he was on his way back from checking the watch. The Captain acknowledged him, was perfectly pleasant and all that, and Savatier cut him dead, just looked the other way and carried on walking."

"Perhaps he didn't hear him," Porthos offered.

"He heard him perfectly," Aramis insisted. "What's more, I happened to glance at Tréville to see what his response was to the slight and he was perplexed."

Their conversation turned to camping outside the Citadel and speculating on how long it might be before the English attacked. As they followed the coastline, they had no problem seeing the enemy fleet moored in deeper water. It was a formidable sight but they did not appear in any great hurry to storm the beaches of Ré. It was not a huge island, barely nineteen miles long and just over three miles across at its widest point with an elevation of little more than seventy feet towards its west end. Where they rode now, it was flat with vast swathes of sand dunes along the beach itself. Just over five miles from the Citadel was the Fort de la Prée, much smaller and square in shape with towers at each corner and as the two musketeers rode by with it on their left, they both agreed that it was a lonely place for a skeletal force. If Buckingham chose to attack it, those manning the fort would probably not be able to put up too much of a fight, yet it would afford the English Duke an easily defendable base on the island given the potential numbers of his army if most of the vessels were filled to capacity.

The pair tried to follow the beach but the soft, shifting sand and the countless dunes made progress too difficult for the animals and their grunts as they attempted to get a firm footing warned the men that the horses were uneasy.

"Not good for a cavalry charge," Porthos said as they headed inland a little way to firmer ground.

"It might restrict tactics a little," Aramis agreed. "The Governor is probably telling Tréville all of this but it won't hurt to mention it as well."

They scouted the land, noting and discussing the position of small clumps of trees and coarse bushes that might afford a little cover to any of their own side, not least the enemy, but it was the depressions amongst the larger dunes that afforded most concealment. A man could hide in one and not be seen by his companions or the English. Musket fire would have to come over the top from the higher slopes and the conditions of the soft sand were far from conducive for the rapier wielding musketeers who needed agility, sure footing and balance for their fighting. It would not bode well for the French if the English decided to land along the eastern-most reaches of the island.

They sat atop their mounts and watched the enemy fleet for a while but there was no movement save for the occasional rowing boat between the larger men-o'-war ships, probably ferrying officers to and from meetings with the Duke. With a spy-glass and from watching the activity of the smaller boats, they identified Buckingham's flagship and caught the name painted near her prow. Aramis prayed that it was not a portent of how the conflict was going to unfold for the _Triumph_ was an impressive looking vessel.

A little dispirited, they turned their horses and decided to ride for the camp but had not gone far when Porthos suddenly reined in, his eyes fixed upon a small copse ahead and to their left, his hand reaching for a pistol from its saddle holster.

"What is it?" Aramis asked, immediately on the alert and weapons already primed and in his hands.

"Not sure. I thought I saw movement amongst those trees there."

They studied the tree line carefully as they walked the horses slowly forward.

Suddenly a figure broke from the cover of the trees and ran for all it was worth, crossing in front of them and racing for the beach.

"What the …?" Aramis began and spurred his horse to give chase with Porthos close behind.

The sand, though, hampered their pursuit and, cursing, they both slid from their saddles and followed as fast as they could on foot. Sporadically they caught sight of the figure, weaving in and out of the larger sand dunes but as these diminished in height, it was easier to see who they were after as the upper part of the body and the blond hair remained in sight. Neither man had attempted to fire, preferring to apprehend the male.

What neither of them had said aloud was their shock at seeing the fleeing form. There was no doubt that the person was male for he was completely naked, his skin and stature suggesting that he was a boy in his mid-teens. The musketeers did their best but being tall, muscular men in heavy leather, boots and fully armed, their weight slowed them down. The boy, unencumbered as he was by any scrap of clothing, was fleet of foot and soon running through the shallows before diving headlong into the water and heading out to the enemy fleet.

Bursting through the dunes and onto the firmer surface of the beach, wet from the receding tide, Aramis and Porthos bent over, hands on knees as they concentrated on recovering their breath. When at last they straightened, the boy had covered quite a distance with long, easy strokes through the surf. They watched as his head broke the surface once more.

"If he hadn't been blond, I'd' ave thought it was Athos again," Porthos quipped.

Aramis laughed and then grew serious. "We'd better get back as quickly as we can and report to Tréville. Something tells me that the English are about to make their move."

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **The naked boy was real! Buckingham sent a boy swimming to the shore with the instruction to go inland for about a mile before returning. He was to report on the presence of French soldiers. There was not an army in a defensive position as yet but the boy was spotted by some French soldiers who gave chase - in this instance it was Porthos and Aramis. The boy swam back to the 'Triumph' and told the Duke there was no defensive army at that end of the island.**_

 _ **The one thing I have changed is that the boy's presence alerted the French to the presence of the English fleet but I already have them in position off the island and very visible so please forgive me for that digression from potential fact.**_


	26. Chapter 26

_**Belated Easter greetings to you all. Goodness, the one day accounted for in this chapter was not easy to write as the English invade R**_ _ **é**_ _ **! I am including a 'horse alert' as battle commences but I have deliberately refrained from being too graphic.**_

 _ **Thank you so much for your continued support and the lovely, encouraging comments.**_

 _ **Just a gentle reminder, this section of the story is historical to the Musketeers and is set in 1627, before d'Artagnan is on the scene. Back in chapters 14-15, they begin to tell him the story of what happened four years earlier so the past ten chapters and for the foreseeable future are all set then although I will put dates more regularly now as there will be the passing of time.**_

CHAPTER 26

 _ **Ȋ**_ _ **le de R**_ _ **é**_ _ **, July, 1627**_

Porthos and Aramis stood at ease in the Governor's office as Toiras paced back and forth, ruminating over the report he had just received from the two musketeers. Tréville and Mordain were also standing there, waiting for the Governor to conclude his deliberation.

"And he was heading for the _Triumph_?" he asked again, seeking clarification.

"That was his direction," Aramis confirmed, "although we didn't wait to find out for sure. We thought it was better to get back here as quickly as possible."

"Quite right, quite right," Toiras agreed distractedly. He suddenly stopped his pacing and fired a question at Tréville. "What do you make of it?"

Tréville inhaled deeply, giving himself time to frame his response. "The boy was sent to shore on some sort of reconnaissance mission, presumably to ascertain whether or not we have an army already lying in wait for the English or if there were at least visible signs of troop movements."

"And all he encountered was a two-man patrol," Mordain added grimly.

"So Buckingham knows that if he were to move quickly, he could land with sufficient men and face little opposition unless we move even more quickly," Toiras summarised.

"It would have to be _very_ quick," Tréville emphasised.

There was a lull in the conversation as the senior men thought over the situation whilst Aramis and Porthos waited and exchanged nervous glances, wondering if they should remain or discreetly take their leave whilst serious plans were considered.

Toiras stood, head bowed and gnawing on the knuckle of an index finger when he suddenly rounded upon his two officers.

"We move now; infantry and cavalry. They go first. Carts will follow with supplies under a minimal guard and so that we have the means to transport back any casualties," Toiras ordered. "Get them prepared as fast as you can and let me know as soon as you are ready to leave."

...

So they had moved with an impressive speed, both at packing up and on the march. The main body of soldiers were en route to Sablanceau within an hour of receiving their orders to break camp. They collected bedrolls and their few personal items and queued in an orderly fashion as they were issued with spare ammunition, powder and basic rations. Serge was complaining the whole time that he was distributing bread and thick slices of meat and cheese to the musketeer regiment but that was more from a sense of frustration at being expected to produce victuals at such short notice and feeling that he could have done better for the men he served. He and the two boys who assisted him would take to the road with additional food and medical supplies as soon as they were able, joining forces with an ammunition wagon and escorted by Delacroix and five other men. Mordain and the Governor had organised their own supplies and protection details.

Pike men led the way three abreast, followed by the main infantry and the entire column was flanked on both sides by the majority of the cavalry who were constantly on the lookout for any threat should an advance party of the enemy have already landed. The remainder of their number rode out as supplementary scouts watching for any evidence of the English and constantly riding back to update their commanders.

The three _Inseparables_ , their own conversation muted, were riding vanguard ahead of the column and immediately behind Tréville and Savatier who, in their turn, followed Mordain who accompanied Toiras. It was clear that the two musketeer officers only exchanged comments when absolutely necessary. There was a strain in their working relationship that had not been there before and it troubled Aramis as he watched them closely. Tréville sat easily in his saddle as always but there was a set about his shoulders that suggested more than a little tension, although his head movement indicated that his concentration was focused on the route ahead and sweeping the emergent beach to the left rather than giving time to the lieutenant riding on his right.

Toiras raised a hand and brought the troops to a halt; only Tréville spurred his horse forward to come alongside the Governor. There was almost an audible sigh spreading through the infantry as the march had been unrelenting and could not have been sustained at that pace for much longer; as it was, they had succeeded in reaching their objective in almost two and a half hours and now awaited further instruction as to how they were to be deployed exactly. The three senior officers were in deep discussion, each with a spyglass to scrutinise the more distant stretches of beach and off shore to the English fleet.

"What are they doin'?" Porthos asked.

"Deciding what we do next," Athos replied, his eyes firmly upon the men who were about fifteen feet ahead of him.

"Not them," Porthos said, his tone puzzled as he pointed out towards the shoreline. "Them - the English. Are they dead? Have their bodies been washed ashore?"

Both Aramis and Athos looked to where he indicated, jaws dropping at the sight of a large group of men – too many to count quickly– lying in the surf, small waves breaking around and over them. Weapons lay discarded upon the sand and, as the Frenchmen listened, laughter and shouts reached their ears. Although the words were indistinguishable at such a distance and would, if truth be told, be unintelligible, it was clear that the voices were not raised in anger. Bemused, the young musketeers watched the bizarre behaviour of the English.

"Do you think they know we're even here?" Aramis asked.

"They might not but the newcomers have certainly seen us," and Athos nodded towards a huge number of small boats rowing for the shore, obviously ferrying further soldiers from the vessels that had brought them to French waters. Any warnings they might have been shouting to those revelling in the shallows were lost on the breeze but they were waving wildly, no doubt trying to alert their colleagues as to the arrival of the defending troops.

Tréville, Mordain and Toiras turned to ride back down the line, barking a string of orders and the French force immediately responded. Infantrymen broke ranks and ran to the large sand dunes for cover, spreading out as they continued working their way towards the invading soldiers. The pike men moved down onto the beach and into formation ready to attack whilst the cavalry were ordered to hold back until instructed otherwise. The three friends sat atop their mounts, steadying the animals that sensed the tension in the air and stamped their hooves restlessly.

"Now what are those ships doing?" Aramis wondered aloud, staring out at the English fleet.

Two of the closest warships had shifted position so that they were broadside to the beach, gun ports open on two decks and muzzles of artillery pieces clearly visible.

That was the moment that hell was unleashed.

A thunderous cacophony sounded as the cannons fired, vast clouds of smoke suddenly obscuring the hulls and the lower part of the rigging. Some of the shot fell short, plunging into the sea and sending vast fountains of water heavenward; others found their mark on the beach, ploughing into the sand and sending clumps of it flying or bouncing several times, cutting through the rear ranks of French pike men as they advanced towards the English.

The horses were terrified, rearing and circling, their frenzied squeals and neighing adding to the cries and screams of injured men cut down in the sand. Some of the animals barged into each other whilst others bolted, two or three of them having thrown their riders. Porthos, Aramis and Athos were focused on maintaining control and calming their own mounts before taking cover amongst the larger sand dunes.

"What the hell are they doin'? They could kill their own as they row to shore," Porthos spat angrily.

"Unlikely with the angle of the guns; they were not aimed at that area of the beach where their own forces were landing," Athos answered before he slithered on his belly up to the crest of the dune behind which they had concealed themselves.

Keeping as low as he could, he looked on the scene below and prepared at any moment to duck down. Undeterred by the casualties, the pike men swiftly reformed and continued marching towards the English soldiers who had at last decided to leave the shallows and ran to where they had abandoned their weapons above the waterline.

More men spilled from the small boats and splashed their way onto the beach and amongst them was a commanding figure with long, curling dark hair swept back from a high forehead. Dressed all in black – doublet, breeches, boots and shining breastplate - and wielding a sword, he marched up from the waterline, gesticulating towards the French and shouting orders.

Although he had never seen any paintings of the man, he had heard descriptions and Athos knew instinctively that this was George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham who was taking immediate control of the situation and organising the unruly soldiers as he drove them up the beach to face the French and fight for a firm foothold on the island. Even as they took up positions, the flotilla of small boats was already heading back to the main fleet, no doubt intent upon bringing the next body of soldiers to the shore.

The two sides clashed on the sand, the fifteen-foot pikes doing untold damage and pushing back the English musketeers until they rallied and opened fire. More musket fire erupted from the dunes as the French infantry began firing in support of their comrades. From his concealed position and out of range, Athos could not offer any help. Rolling onto his back, he used his feet to correct his downward slide to where the others waited and he rapidly explained what was happening. Even as he spoke, Tréville rode into view, shouting for all to mount up and prepare to charge to counter the English attack.

Minutes later, the entire cavalry, including the élite King's regiment, was lined up on the sand from the dunes to the water's edge and several horses deep. At their head, the Musketeer Captain sat, holding his eager mount in readiness as he watched the men gather and considered the best moment to attack.

"Hold the line!" he ordered, as men fought to rein back the over-eager animals. "Steady! Steady!"

The three friends were side by side in the front row at the dunes' edge. Silently and solemnly, they nodded an acknowledgement to each other and then Porthos thrust out his hand. Leaning across from their saddles, Athos and Aramis placed their hands on his as he intoned, "All for one ..."

"And one for all," they finished.

Three pairs of eyes met and communicated the words they would not and could not say. Their message was to stay safe and survive; they could not dwell on what might be for they were soldiers and that was the unspoken risk they faced. Some days, they were presented with a considerably higher risk than others and today was one of those days; they would face the consequences – whatever they might be – when the fighting stopped but, for now, they were about to ride into battle and they could see English pike men consolidating a deadly wall of resistance as their French counterparts moved away, seemingly giving ground but, in reality, clearing out of the way of the imminently deadly attack.

The men tensed, waiting for the order as they cast surreptitious glances to the side where Tréville stood in the saddle so that as many of the cavalry as possible could see him with rapier held aloft and ready to give the signal.

"Charge!" Tréville bellowed, lowering the rapier and spurring his mount into a gallop; the animal surged forward and the front line went with him, setting the pace for the pursuant ranks.

The sound was deafening as hooves thundered across the wet sand and two hundred men roared their fury and intent as they rode down upon the English and volleys of musket fire spat their support from the dunes. The men o'war had ceased their main bombardment when the two sides initially met, not wanting to slaughter their own but as the cavalry commenced their charge, several bursts of cannon fire were heard and even fewer lucky shots brought down some of the men and their beasts along the shore. Grimly, Athos, Porthos and Aramis rode on, refusing to be distracted by the screams of men and horses and intent only upon one thing – finding some way to cut down sufficient numbers of the enemy to break their line.

Boats were landing and unloading more of the English all the time and they joined the fray without hesitation; the earlier chaos was supplanted by a frightening order and numbers for about a thousand men had now landed, forming themselves into a gigantic square with the infantry protected by the pikes through which it rapidly became clear the French cavalry could not hope to penetrate.

As most successfully veered off to avoid the horses being impaled on the weapons or slowed sufficiently to fire pistols at the pike men, a hail of musket fire exploded from within the square and cavalrymen doubled over in their saddles or were knocked to the ground, only to be trampled by the hooves of the horses behind, their riders unable to change direction to avoid their comrades.

They circled and galloped back along the beach to regroup, men and animals alike heaving for breath as they lined up to reload pistols and launch another attack. Time no longer seemed to matter; it had taken on a nightmarish quality of slow motion or ceasing to exist altogether. They charged again and the carnage continued, the English wall holding. French pike men rejoined the fight but were held back when they discovered that their pikes were shorter than those of the enemy, thus preventing them from coming close so that the attempt to break the line of defence with the familiar push and shove as the forces met was no longer an option. In frustration, they picked up stones and hurled them with all their might, a fortuitous throw causing the occasional one to glance off a skull or shoulder and at least causing a distraction that might afford the cavalry a much sought-after opportunity. Meanwhile, the French infantry kept up a constant barrage of musket fire from the dunes but the rear portion of the English forces broke away from the square and resolved to face them, inching inexorably up the beach towards the dunes and gaining valuable ground.

The battle was desperate and casualties were mounting on both sides. From a high dune back from the fighting where Tréville had insisted that he remain, the Marquis de Toiras watched the heavy toll the engagement was taking on his troops and knew that he had to make a decision.

As he watched the Captain of the King's élite regiment of musketeers urge his horse up the soft sand to join him at his vantage point and await further instructions, he knew what that decision would be and sighed heavily.

"We have too many wounded and dead men," he declared.

"We are inflicting equally heavy casualties on the English," Tréville said, looking back across the battlefield and trying to maintain an air of objectivity as he wondered how many of his musketeers had fallen and who they were, for he knew they could not possibly have survived the bitter onslaught completely unscathed. He dare not dwell on it at this point though, even as images of the faces of his men swam before his eyes.

"And I will not countenance the loss of more of my own. Not today," Toiras said determinedly. "Sound the order to retreat."

A/N

 _ **As far as possible from one main source, I have reproduced the battle for that day, although the cannon bombardment is (as far as I know it) mine.**_

 _ **The first group of Englishmen landing did only get as far as the shallows to begin with as they had been on board ship for some time!**_

 _ **Buckingham then landing and driving them up the beach, the English battle formation of the square with musketeers in the centre, the failure of the French cavalry to break the line, the French pikes being shorter, the stone throwing and the carnage were all in the account ... as was Toiras' order to retreat.**_

 _ **So, how have the Inseparables fared, I wonder?**_


	27. Chapter 27

_**Greetings. Sure sign I'm on holiday; two chapters in two days! Thank you so much for the lovely feedback. This chapter has a little more of our trio with some worries in the aftermath of the battle.**_

CHAPTER 27

When the call to draw back sounded, there was an orderly departure. Whilst the English cheered at their victory and jeered at the sight of the retreating army, the French cavalry moved into position to provide a protective wall between the two forces, just in case the English should choose to give immediate chase. As infantrymen passed fallen comrades, they did a cursory check, sadly leaving the dead where they lay and identifying the wounded. They carried the worst hurt between them, struggled to lay others across the saddles of riderless horses that they caught or lifted them up to sit either behind or in front of the mounted men. Still more supported those who were the walking wounded as they limped from the battlefield.

Tréville and Toiras watched as their men made their way slowly past them.

"Keep the cavalry at the rear as they are now to give the wounded a chance to get clear. The carts should not be too far away and those most severely injured can be transferred to them. Any medical help must be given en route; we cannot afford to stop, even though I fear that we will lose more of them before we get to Saint Martin," Toiras' face was grim. "We must expect that Buckingham will soon give the order to pursue us and then we will turn to face him. The men, tired as they will be after that fight, have to be urged to make the best possible speed. If we get back to the Citadel, you must break your camp and come within the walls; if we get that far, we have to prepare for a siege." He paused and looked around. "Where is Mordain?"

"I don't know," Tréville answered. "I haven't seen him since we arrived and took up diverse positions."

Toiras frowned, "Let us hope he is among the wounded. We will know soon enough."

"I must rejoin my men," Tréville said, eager to get down onto the beach where the cavalry were sidling their horses along the sand so that they could keep the enemy under constant scrutiny whilst the wounded were being moved.

In the aftermath of the pitched battle, Athos sat deceptively calmly in his saddle but his mind was in turmoil as he watched the English similarly collecting their casualties. He urged his horse into a slow walk towards the place where several bodies of French cavalrymen lay. He cast his eyes quickly over the still forms, searching for a familiar uniform amongst them and dared to hope that his brother was not there. His breath hitched when he could not find him and, unsure whether or not to trust his sense of sight, he slipped from his saddle to walk amongst the dead.

Some of the men were unknown to him - Toiras' existing cavalry, no doubt – but there were, inevitably, the recognisable pauldrons displaying the fleur de lis insignia. It was then he crouched to close staring eyes or paused to roll over a corpse in order to make identification and mutter a hasty farewell. Standing straight, he took a deep breath and was aware of his rapidly beating heart. At the approach of a horse, he looked up and an overwhelming sense of panic gripped him again as he tried to read Porthos' expression.

"He is not here," Athos said in an emotionless monotone.

"And I haven't found him," Porthos announced, unable to conceal the worry in his own voice.

Athos composed himself as he swung back up into his saddle. "Then he is amongst the wounded and has already been taken from the battlefield."

"We don't know that; we haven't searched amongst all the dead," Porthos objected, anguish etched deep into his features.

Athos reached out a hand to clasp his friend's shoulder and squeezed tightly. "Think of our positions on the last charge; they did not differ from before. He was with us on the outside beyond you and would have veered to the right. He is not over there," and he pointed to where the English pike men had maintained their impenetrable human wall, "nor is he between there and here. You say he is not behind us; there is nowhere else for him to be." He had hoped that his attempt at reassurance would cement his own confidence but he was failing in that; his heart was in the grip of a sickening fear as long as he did not know the whereabouts of his missing brother.

"Supposing he was badly hurt and conscious and managed to drag himself amongst the sand dunes? We have not looked for him there. He could have hidden and lost consciousness; anything might have happened to him."

Athos sighed, "Porthos, I know that ..."

He got no further. Savatier rode up to them, his face like thunder.

"Come on. What's wrong with you? What's the delay?" he barked. "We're moving out."

"We don't know where Aramis is," Porthos began.

"So, he's not among the dead here, is he?" the lieutenant demanded.

"No, but ..."

"Then move out. In case you haven't realised it, we are retreating back to Saint Martin and leaving the beach to the English. Now, unless you wish to become their prisoner or cannon fodder whilst they practice trying to hit something, then you need to get moving," Savatier hissed at them.

"We haven't finished searching," Porthos tried again whilst Athos watched the exchange, his anger rising.

"It was not a suggestion, musketeer," snapped the lieutenant. "There is no more time. The English could start after us at any moment. They have allowed us to take our wounded; don't try their patience – or mine! Your friend must have gone ahead with the wounded and if he hasn't," and here he paused for a dramatic effect as he graced them with a mirthless grin, "then he's lying out there somewhere and no longer needing your help."

"You don't know that for sure!" Porthos raged, his anxiety getting the better of him.

"I don't need to and don't raise your voice at me, soldier, or you will answer for it."

Porthos was about to react but Athos grabbed his arm and shook his head, his voice low and conciliatory. "Let us ride after the column. The sooner we do that, the sooner we find him and discover the extent of his injuries. I, for one, do not want to wait here and incur the further wrath of the English. Come, my friend." He rode slowly past the lieutenant, never taking his eyes off him and noting the man's dark scowl even as he hoped that Porthos was following him.

They encouraged the horses into a canter as they set off after the column and overtook the slow moving cavalry. It was not long before they reached the unharmed infantrymen and passed them with Athos in the lead.

Tréville, who had been riding up and down the column urging them to move as quickly as possible, was on his way back to the rearguard when he saw the pair and his heart sank. The fact that after a battle there were only two together instead of the usual three could only mean one thing. Reining in his mount, he waited for them to reach him, saw the bleakness in their eyes and the slump of the shoulders.

"Where's Aramis?" he asked, trying to sound matter-of-fact but dreading their answer.

"We don't know," Porthos said, his voice tight.

"We could not find him amongst the dead," Athos took up the explanation, "but we did not have time to search thoroughly in case he had hidden himself."

"Savat..." Porthos stopped, ground his teeth and corrected himself. "The lieutenant would not allow us to remain behind any longer."

Tréville drew himself up straighter in the saddle, knowing that what he wanted to say differed from what he had to say.

"It was not safe for you to stay there; the enemy could have started after us at any time. You would have been vulnerable had they done so. Lieutenant Savatier was correct to move you on."

Athos turned his gaze seaward and Tréville saw the familiar tightening of the jaw as the younger man decided just what it would be acceptable for him to say without overstepping the bounds of rank.

"Don't even think it," Tréville ordered and took some satisfaction when he saw the faint reaction of surprise cross Athos' face. He was expecting some objection to Savatier's order and he could understand their response; if he had been them, he would have felt exactly the same but, reluctantly, he had to acknowledge that Savatier had acted as he should, even if he had demonstrated little sympathy as he did so. Tréville would have given the same order himself. "Go up the line, check the wounded and find him. He must be there. If there is any sign of trouble from behind us, you are to return immediately. Do you understand? We will need every fighting man; the wounded will have to fend for themselves or ..." He let his voice trail off.

They nodded their thanks and went past him. Watching them go, he sent a brief prayer heavenward that they would be successful in their search for he did not know how they would survive if they failed.

They went on in silence, one on each side of the column, pausing to check every wounded soldier as they passed but there was no sign of their missing brother. They reached the carts and baulked at the number lying almost on top of each other, so many were packed in together, some with horrendous injuries. It was obvious that the plan was to move them as quickly as possible and render any medical aid when they were safe from the threat of the English; that would probably not be until they were back within the fortifications of the Citadel.

If Aramis were to be badly hurt, he would need immediate treatment and they would do everything within their power to help him but Tréville's instruction was perfectly clear. Athos was already re-running the Captain's words through his head, deliberating how far he could bend them without actually being disobedient and was already formulating a secondary plan. Depending upon his injuries, they could remove Aramis from the cart transporting him to the roadside to give him assistance and there they would remain until they were ready to move on. If the English were spotted in pursuit, he and Porthos would either hide Aramis by the road or one of them would ride with him back to the cart to leave him there before rejoining the other as quickly as possible when the French force prepared to face the enemy afresh.

They were running out of options as only three carts remained. Hurriedly searching the first of these without success, Athos felt sick with worry. Supposing they had left the beach too soon? Supposing Porthos had been right and Aramis had crawled from the battlefield and had passed out amongst the sand dunes? Would the English find him? Would they take him prisoner and tend to his injuries or would they ...? He dare not finish the thought. Why had he not argued with Savatier and continue to search whilst he had the chance? What was a disciplinary charge for disobedience when weighed against Aramis' life? How could he live with the knowledge that he had made a wrong decision and left Aramis out there if that transpired to be the case?

He shook his head in a physical attempt to dispel his thoughts. Not finding his brother in the cart, he drew level with its driver and smiled at the familiar grizzled features.

"Serge, have you seen Aramis?" he asked, hoping against hope that the old soldier might have seen the missing man, even if he was not carrying him to safety himself.

The veteran shook his head. "No. You tellin' me you don't know where he is?"

Athos nodded miserably. In his peripheral vision, he saw Porthos ride on to the cart in front. Two left. Their options were diminishing fast and, in an instant, he realised that he did not want know, did not want to face the truth if Aramis were not to be found. He desperately wanted time to stop right here, right now, in that moment between the not knowing and the knowing.

"Athos!"

His head snapped round to where Porthos stretched forward in his saddle and pointed into the bed of the next cart. "He's here!"

Athos rode forward, his eyes fixed on Porthos as he frantically sought some clue as to whether or not their brother still lived.

Suddenly, Porthos' fraught expression broke into a grin. "He's your side."

Without realising that he was holding his breath, Athos reached the cart and almost sobbed in relief as he saw a familiar figure struggling to sit up. Clearly disorientated and with blood streaming from a gash on his left temple, Aramis blinked repeatedly as he gazed around him. He clung to the hand extended to him as Athos came up beside him.

"Get me out of here," he gasped distractedly. "I am amongst the dead."

Athos let his own gaze rest on the men lying on either side of Aramis and immediately saw that they were deceased, their eyes open and their blood mingling with the dirt on Aramis' clothing.

"Stop the cart!" he yelled.

When there was no immediate response, Porthos edged forward and put a hand out to halt the nearest horse, ignoring the shouts from the carter.

"Just 'old on a minute. Someone's gettin' off," he ordered. The scowl he levied at the man holding the reins was enough to silence any further objection.

Additional shouts to halt were heard echoing down the line and muted grumbling began. Porthos crossed between the horses and the back of the cart in front and reached his brothers just as Athos, now standing by the cart's side, was helping Aramis climb over and into his saddle. As Athos swung up onto the horse's back behind his friend, Porthos reached out and cupped the back of the injured man's neck.

"Good to see you, brother. You had us worried for a bit there; we were wonderin' where you'd gone," he admonished gently, endeavouring to keep his emotions in check. Aramis gave him a weak smile in return. "You can move on now," Porthos hollered and the line rumbled into motion once more.

The two horses stood patiently by the roadside as Porthos took the scarf offered him by Athos, doused the end in water from his leather bottle and dabbed carefully at the cut to Aramis' head. Wincing, Aramis tried to pull back but met with resistance from Athos behind him.

"Hold still," Athos said the words close to his ear. "How are you feeling? Do you have any other injuries that we do not know about?"

Aramis shook his head and immediately regretted it for the pain that lanced through his head and the fact that Porthos held fast to his chin to immobilise him whilst he cleaned the wound.

"I am fine," Aramis said and, as soon as he heard Athos sigh, added, "save for my head."

"Do you think you have a concussion?" Porthos asked.

Aramis shut his eyes momentarily, endeavouring not to show the hurt as Porthos worked. "Probably. My head's pounding and my vision is blurred."

"Any nausea?" Athos strove to temper the anxiety in his question.

"Not at present," Aramis reassured him.

"Do you remember anything of what happened?"

The voice was soft in his ear, solicitous, and Aramis smiled at the sound. "I remember riding with you two towards the English on another charge and then pain exploded in the side of my head. I must have been knocked unconscious immediately for I do not even recall hitting the ground; I take it that's where I ended up. I know nothing until coming round in the cart, head against that of the man next to me and the moment I opened my eyes, I was looking at a dead man. Then you two showed up," he shrugged, playing down his sense of relief for when he had found himself lying between two dead men, he had thought himself in a cart of corpses, mistakenly being transported to a burial ground. "For that I am immensely grateful."

Porthos gave him a mock bow, "You are most welcome."

"Can you take the reins or do you wish for me to do that? We need to head back to the rear of the column; Tréville is expecting us to return," Athos stated, sounding more businesslike.

"The Captain'll be pleased to see you," Porthos grinned again.

"As I him," Aramis responded, taking up the reins and ordering the mount to move forward. Athos sat easily behind the cantle, hands lightly at Aramis' waist, ostensibly to hold himself steady but more for detecting any change in Aramis as they rode.

"You think you're up to this?" Porthos asked, apprehensive that Aramis might not be ready to rejoin the rearguard.

The marksman merely shrugged, dismissing his friend's unease. "I am happier now that I am out of that cart and I know where you two are. "All I ask is that you lend me a pistol." He smiled sheepishly. "I seem to be devoid of any."

Athos hands at Aramis' waist tightened. "I think we can manage that."

As it transpired, the offer was unnecessary for the English did not pursue the retreating French, much to everyone's surprise, not least Toiras and Tréville. They were discussing that fact as they made the rounds of the Citadel in the late evening.

All the reinforcements – Tréville's musketeers and Mordain's infantry – had packed up camp as soon as they arrived back at the Citadel and moved within its walls on Toiras' orders and it had taken time to assign resting places to the vast gathering of men and safely stow stores and ammunition supplies from the united camps. The guard had been trebled in the expectation that the English might move up to Saint Martin overnight; Toiras anticipated waking in the morning to discover the enemy camped outside his walls.

Rooms had been set aside to act as a make-shift infirmary and, on taking time to visit the wounded, Tréville and Toiras found Mordain, grievously wounded from a musket shot. Instructions were given for the completion of a comprehensive list of those in the infirmary and, before the newly enlarged garrison was allowed to retire for the night, they mustered and a full roll-call taken, which was costly in terms of time but invaluable for giving the relevant officers a clearer idea as to the overall casualty figures.

It was nearly midnight when Trévlle closed the door of the small room that he had been assigned and wearily divested himself of his weapons and doublet. His environment was similar to a monastic cell: a narrow cot against a wall, shutters at the one window with a wooden chest beneath it, an empty fireplace, a shelf, some hooks and, in deference to his rank, a small writing desk and wooden chair. By the light of a single candle, he sat at the writing desk and unfolded the piece of paper that he had taken from a pocket in his doublet.

It was the casualty list for the King's musketeers. It did not make for good reading but, he had to admit, things could have been very much worse and the regiment had not taken the pounding experienced by the infantry and pike men. Six musketeers were dead and a further thirteen hurt with injuries ranging from Aramis' head wound to the mortal; he expected to lose another man before the night was out and, once he had completed his daily log, he fully intended to sit with Germain until the end, for he had been a skilled and faithful musketeer since the inception of the regiment.

He perused the names again, stopping at the penultimate one as it was totally unexpected. For the life of him, he could not understand how it had happened for he had put the man on an escort detail that he thought had arrived at the battlefield as the retreat had been sounded.

How, then, had Delacroix received a foot injury?

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **Buckingham made a mistake here by not immediately pursuing the French as they withdrew. Had he done so, it is probable that he would have taken the island by the end of that first day. Instead, he chose to consolidate the beach head.**_


	28. Chapter 28

_**Thank you all so much for your comments; it's lovely to hear from you. This is a slightly shorter chapter today as the Citadel prepares to be besieged, Aramis suffers and Athos voices his suspicions!**_

CHAPTER 28

Morning muster seemed to come all too soon but Tréville needed to reassure himself that his remaining men were fit for duty; they didn't look it, haggard as they were with a bone-aching weariness. He wondered how much sleep they had succeeded in getting. For himself, it was precious little but he did not begrudge the loss of it for one moment. As he had vowed, he sat with Germain until the soldier breathed his last at gone three in the morning, never having regained consciousness. It would have been so easy to have sloped off back to his room long before then and rolled himself exhaustedly into a blanket and slept until dawn but that was not his way – it never had been once he attained the rank of Captain and never would be. He could not have forgiven himself if the injured man had opened his eyes one final time, confused and in agony, and had not seen a familiar face.

He had already lost six men during the battle and he would not have the opportunity to lay them to rest, to say a final farewell so, in his mind, Germain represented all of them. He was not able to be there with them but he could be with Germain. Their passing would be marked with all due respect and honour as soon as he could arrange it but that depended very much upon the movement of the English and if that were to happen sooner rather than later, he would probably have many more names to add to that list. On the very first day of battle, his regiment had been depleted by virtually one fifth. Twelve men were expected to make a full recovery but that would be spread out over a number of days, even weeks; it would not bode well if the regiment suffered too many more casualties in the interim.

With Mordain indisposed – the musket ball having been successfully removed – the infantry's Lieutenant Bernier had swiftly been made up to acting captain and Tréville had already met him at the morning briefing with Governor Toiras before they had even contemplated breakfast. Bernier, a nobleman, appeared painfully young and excruciatingly nervous so that Tréville could not help but wonder if he were up to the task or if he would become the source of a new reason for concern.

Standing on a flight of stone steps in a courtyard of the Citadel, Tréville looked out over his men and saw their readiness for the day's demands despite their tiredness. They had been in the saddle travelling for over six hours the previous day and then there was the additional time spent in the saddle fighting for their lives. They had lost companions yet, on returning to the outskirts of the Citadel, they had broken camp, moved inside the fortress, unloaded and stored equipment, tended their mounts, found somewhere to lay their bedrolls, cleaned weapons, looked after the injured no matter what their regiment, helped wherever they could and all before they looked to their own care and stomachs, eating the simple supper that Serge had managed to prepare once he had been given adequate space. As yet, he still had not found an oven he could use for cooking but Tréville had no doubt that the wily old-timer would have rectified that problem before another day passed.

He looked at his men with overwhelming fondness and pride; they had served him – and the King – well and he launched into a speech of well-earned praise and was rewarded by burgeoning smiles at his public appreciation. He let them bask in the warmth of his approval and then he grew serious. As one, they fell silent and, sensing what he was about to say, they doffed their hats and held them fast before them.

Clearing his throat, he read the names of the injured, those who had not recovered enough to return to the ranks this morning. He had already spotted three of them, including Aramis who stood, pale-faced, between his brothers, both of whom were close enough to brush shoulders with him in an unspoken bond of support. From the wounded, Tréville went on to name the fallen.

"We will remember them and mark their passing in true musketeer fashion but we will do so when we have the time; we will not dishonour them by rushing through a ceremony." He watched the men nod in agreement with his announcement, trusting in his decision.

"For now," he went on, "there is much to be done and we do not know how much time we have to achieve it. All rotation of guard duty for the Citadel's battlements will be doubled. Many of you will be assigned to ride out to the west and south scouring the countryside for food. Everything you find and appropriate or forage is to be brought back here for the Governor is preparing to be besieged by the English; after this evening's meal, you will be on half-rations."

As he expected, this news was met by a murmur of disappointment but food supplies needed to be conserved. They had to expect that Buckingham would set up a blockade with his ships and there was no telling how often food supplies would make their way through to the besieged fortification.

The list of tasks continued but there was some solace in the fact that the jobs would be shared with the other serving men.

"Land is to be cleared for half a mile around the Citadel and beyond the town. It's not too bad but there has been some growth of trees and bushes – all these are to be dug up and chopped down so there is no cover left for the enemy. All the wood is to be brought within the fortification to be used on the fires whilst any green foliage is to be burned out there, nothing left that could be used against us.

"Barrels are to be re-filled with fresh water; the bulk of them will be kept in storage for food preparation and drinking water only. Other barrels will be placed at designated points around the fortification in the event of the English starting fires. We still have the well but it is not designed to supply the number of men stationed within its walls now; we are also approaching the height of summer and we have no way of knowing how long the well's source will last. With that in mind, water will be rationed and distributed to you on a daily basis for your ablutions and personal care. If our reserves become sorely depleted, that will be the first to stop."

He paused as his words registered. If the siege were to be sustained, the stench of over a thousand sweating, unwashed men in filthy clothing at the hottest time of the year would be unpleasant in the extreme.

"Some of you are needed to help in the infirmary with the wounded and help in preparing medicinal stores. Others will be assigned to the armourers. There will be more that needs to be done but this is enough for us to start."

He began issuing individuals with their work and the men melted away to undertake their assigned tasks.

Next were the _Inseparables._ "Aramis, I need you in the infirmary today. Supervise the help with bandage cutting and rolling and check the supplies. Make a detailed list of anything that needs replacing or increasing. We have to be prepared for anything; you know what's needed. Injured men will be in pain, develop fevers and with so many of us confined within the walls of the Citadel, we know we run the serious risk of disease if we are besieged for a long time."

Porthos and Athos stood back and eyed their captain appreciatively for they knew what he was doing. Aramis required more time to recover yet wanted to play his part; he would not be any good in a saddle this day for he had had a bad night and the other two had sat with him as he rocked helplessly with an agonising headache. As he considered the events of the night before, Athos frowned for they brought back a range of memories, some distinctly more unpleasant than others.

In the early hours of the morning, he had slipped out to the infirmary to seek a pain draught from those minding the injured. Whilst it was being prepared, he looked around those in the cots. Many were asleep – or possibly still unconscious – whilst others moaned softly, desperate for any escape from their suffering. He wandered down between the rows, searching for his musketeer comrades and satisfying himself that they were as comfortable as could be expected, pausing to speak quietly with one whom he found awake.

Towards the end of another row, illuminated by a single flickering candle, he saw Tréville sitting beside one man and something about the way the Captain leaned close, a hand on the stricken man's arm, told him that the musketeer was dying. Even as he watched, Tréville bowed his head for several moments as if in prayer and then rubbed a hand tiredly over his face. Eventually he stood, looked down upon one of his own for the last time and turned to move towards the door. He was deep in thought so that when Athos stepped in front of him out of the shadows, the officer visibly started.

"I'm sorry, Captain, I did not mean to startle you," he apologised in a whisper.

"Don't worry; my thoughts were elsewhere."

"Germain?" Athos queried, looking past Tréville to where the latest musketeer fatality lay. Tréville nodded. "I am sorry; I know he has served with you for a number of years."

"I will miss him for sure but what brings you here at this time of night?"

"I am waiting whilst someone makes up a herbal draught for me to take back to Aramis; he cannot sleep for the pain is driving him mad and making him physically sick," Athos explained.

"Look after him and give him my regards; I trust that he will feel better come the morning. Make sure you get some rest yourself," Tréville ordered.

"You too, Captain," Athos said earnestly, for the man looked shattered by the day's events, the hard fight and the loss of men.

Tréville gave a wan smile. "I will try for that is where I am headed right now. Goodnight."

"Goodnight," and Athos watched him go, one world-weary step after another and again he fervently wished that the man would find some rest.

"Very touching," said a scathing voice from a bed behind him and Athos whirled round in surprise. "Captain's pet! I'm surprised you didn't offer to go with him, tuck him in or keep him warm."

Athos bristled at the insult and would have retaliated but for the appearance of the infirmary worker who was holding out a small bottle to him.

"This should help," the man said. "He is to take half now and the remainder in a couple of hours if the pain is not any easier."

Athos eyed the small bottle and hoped that it was sufficient to bring Aramis some much-needed relief. He waited until the man had departed before turning to Delacroix.

"And how is it that you find yourself stuck in that bed?" he said coldly.

"I took an English musket ball in my foot," Delacroix said. "It shattered bone. I expect it will be some time before I am fit to resume duties."

"Oh, I expect so too," Athos said, his eyes widening dramatically. "An English musket ball, you say? Their infantry killed a lot of good Frenchmen today so we could argue that they had a lot of luck on their side but I can't even begin to describe the skill of the man who managed to hit you in the foot when you were behind the rest of us with the supply carts. I doubt even Aramis could have made that shot!"

Delacroix' eyes narrowed, "Just what are you suggesting?"

Athos shrugged. "I do not believe that I am suggesting anything. I am merely commenting on the incredible shot of an English musketeer and the sad misfortune of a French one."

His face was an inscrutable mask and Delacroix stared at him in silence for ages as if trying to determine the meaning behind the words.

"Well, I had better get back to Aramis with this medicine. I will bid you goodnight too; I would not have you claim that I was ignoring you because you were not the rank of a captain." There was no change to his expression and no trace of sarcasm in his voice.

He was heading towards the door when Delacroix spoke once more.

"Remember that we have unfinished business, Athos, for I have not forgotten. You accepted my challenge. I will not always be confined to this bed. At some point I will resume my duties and we will settle matters then."


	29. Chapter 29

_**Greetings; many thanks to the regulars and guests for your lovely comments. I haven't got back to people individually as yet but will do so as soon as I can.**_

CHAPTER 29

Three days – that was how long they had in the end before the English appeared outside the Citadel of Saint-Martin-de-Ré.

In that time, all that was necessary within the fortification had been completed as far as possible. Toiras, Tréville and Bernier – sometimes in the company of other officers – made their rounds several times a day checking on the work, having a quiet word of encouragement with the men and giving further orders before returning for additional discussions and strategic planning.

For two days, Athos and Porthos had ridden out after the morning muster. Several other pairings left with them through the main gate and then they had parted company. Their reconnaissance area was directly east, back the way they had ridden on the day of the battle and they were mindful not to encounter enemy patrols. With no high ground to use to their advantage, they could not approach too closely and had to rely upon a spy glass to scrutinise the English activity. More men had disembarked and the beach which had borne witness to the brunt of the fighting was now a vast camp. Buckingham had most definitely established his beachhead.

Lying on their stomachs at the top of one of the most western dunes, the two musketeers attempted to gauge the number of men swarming on the sand like ants.

"What do you think about numbers?" Porthos whispered.

"It's hard when we're looking down on them but I'd say over six thousand."

Porthos cursed softly. "I'd say it's nearer to seven now."

"Whichever is the closer, it means the same thing. We are heavily outnumbered," Athos said grimly. He turned the spy glass seawards. "The ships are moving, spreading out along the island and round the north-eastern tip." He rolled slightly to look to his right. "I can't be sure from this angle but I think the English have moved round the island to the south-east as well. Do you realise what that means?"

Porthos nodded unhappily. "They've cut us off completely from the mainland."

"We're on our own unless the King and Richelieu act decisively."

"We haven't the ships to take on that lot," Porthos noted and Athos had to agree with him.

It was only in the two years since the second Huguenot rebellion that Richelieu had made the development of a French navy a priority, approaching Dutch shipbuilders and yards for new vessels and expertise in building other ships in France but it would take time and, with an extensive English fleet moored in French waters, it was not going to help them now.

Movement catching his peripheral vision, Athos raised the spy glass in a new direction. Men were working above the high water line amongst the smaller dunes and he watched the goings-on for a while before lowering the glass.

"They're burying the dead, ours included," Athos explained quietly.

Porthos thought about it. "That's good to hear. I did not like the notion of our men just lyin' out there or somethin' worse bein' done to them. Least we know they're bein' treated with some respect."

"They may be the enemy but I doubt that they are monsters," Athos said gently. "Whilst they look to their own, they would have to be utterly heartless to ignore our dead. However, I too am relieved to know that our men are being laid to rest. Tréville will be reassured."

Off duty later that evening, they took time over their meal in the company of Aramis. The marksman was much recovered, the headaches a thing of the past and the cut scabbing over and healing well. He had been occupied in the infirmary, taking stock of what was there and realising that they were seriously short on supplies with little chance of replacing a lot of what was needed. A few more of the patients had recovered sufficiently enough to leave but there were several who had succumbed to fever and were deteriorating fast, amongst them Mordain. Aramis had remained with him for much of the second day, feeding him sips of herbal remedies to fight the fever and pain but, as the hours passed, he had become less lucid.

"I do not have the expertise to help him and nor do the others who are working with me in the infirmary. There are others like him and few will survive without adequate intervention," Aramis said dejectedly as he sampled the simple stew that Serge had managed to throw together from their supplies, having brought cured meat with him.

Cattle, goats, pigs, sheep and chickens had been brought alive into the Citadel during the two days and housed in outbuildings within the western walls along with minimum foodstuffs to keep them alive. A whole scale slaughter was scheduled to begin the following day of the larger animals and would last for nearly a week to give Serge , the other cooks and helpers time to skin and joint carcasses in order to make them easier to salt and smoke for preservation. The chickens were being kept for eggs for as long as possible and then they, too, would be eaten.

The three friends ate contentedly and Athos and Porthos shared what they had seen that day within the English camp. Once that subject was exhausted, they turned their thoughts to life within the Citadel and what it meant for them over the coming days and weeks. There was no doubt about it, life was going to be hard, becoming rapidly unbearable if they did not have relief or support from the mainland and there was no telling how long they would have to wait for that.

"Talking of the injured," Athos began, seemingly disinterested, "how is Delacroix progressing with his shattered foot?" He spooned more stew into his mouth.

"What makes you think bones were shattered?" Aramis asked.

"I am merely depending upon the information I received," Athos answered.

"And who was the source of the information?" Porthos was now curious.

"From Delacroix himself," came the reply.

Aramis choked upon a mouthful of food at the news and Porthos came to his rescue by clapping him soundly upon the back. Athos raised an eyebrow questioningly as he awaited Aramis' explanation for his reaction.

"Firstly, the bones in his foot are not shattered; at least, not according to one of the other soldiers who has been helping to tend the injured."

"You have not seen the wound?" Athos was definitely interested now.

Aramis sipped at his lukewarm ale and shook his head. "He won't let me get anywhere near him and has refused to let me redress his wound." Aramis laid a hand on his heart and adopted an air of mock hurt. "He had the nerve to proclaim loudly that he did not trust me as I was a friend of yours, Athos."

"Seems to me like he's hidin' something'," Porthos surmised.

"What is the nature of the wound then?"

Aramis looked at Athos. "From what I've been told by this same fellow, the ball grazed the outside of the foot and the little toe is broken." His face registered surprise as Athos gave an unexpected snort of derision.

"So if Delacroix' story is to have any credence, he was shot by an Englishman who had to have been lying in his stomach on the ground and successfully shot through or round all the feet and legs of horses and infantry and perhaps miss the wheels of the occasional cart just to catch him on the side of the foot!"

Porthos grinned widely at the prospect, "Wonderful how it creased him along the side of the foot then."

"It would have been had the wound been _along_ the side of the foot and not _down_ the foot," Aramis announced carefully and watched as his words penetrated.

Porthos' jaw dropped, "You tellin' me he shot 'imself in the foot?"

Athos slammed his ale cup down on the table top, making his two brothers jump as the burst of temper was unexpected. "Of course he did but he was too much of a coward to even do that properly."

"He might have done it accidentally and tells the story of the English bullet to save himself from ridicule," Aramis reasoned but as soon Athos turned a withering glare in his direction, he retracted that idea, "or not."

"Why the lily-livered ..." Porthos' hands folded into powerful fists as he ran out of suitable insults for the man's cowardice.

"Well he caused himself unnecessary pain. He didn't want to fight and took the only way out he could think of but the battle was over and now we're in here for a while," Athos said.

"At least he will be stayin' out your way for a while; he'll leave you alone," Porthos said hopefully. "Maybe he'll come out the infirmary a changed man."

Athos shook his head. "I doubt it, he's got a long memory and he is not one for letting things go," and he repeated the rest of the conversation of the previous evening.

"You can't do it, Athos. You know the penalty for duelling and you know how angry Tréville was when you two clashed the other day. He won't be so lenient with you a second time."

...

The third day was very similar to the preceding two and when the fourth day dawned, Aramis returned to the infirmary and Porthos and Athos rode out together on patrol. The weather was fine with the sun shining down on the calm blue sea. The English fleet had not moved and the two musketeers might have been forgiven for assuming a stalemate had been reached.

That was until they reached the first point from which they could see the edges of the enemy camp and they knew immediately that the situation had changed for there was much activity.

Athos and Porthos did not even dismount or attempt to move any closer; there was no need. They needed to return to the Citadel as quickly as possible to raise the alarm for the English were on the move.

By early afternoon, the first of the enemy had arrived outside the fortification and started to set up their new camp. A few hours later, the last of the soldiers marched into view, by which time a tented town had taken shape, curving around the Citadel to the east and south.

The siege had begun.

From the battlements, Toiras and Tréville had watched events unfolding during the afternoon. As night fell and a multitude of fires became visible in the English camp, the Governor straightened and gave the first orders for the following day.

"I want two messages sent tomorrow; I will go down and write them now. The first is to the elders of Saint Martin. They are not to resist when the English attack for they will want to take the town and, under siege, we will not be in a position to protect them. The second will be to the Duke of Buckingham; I gather from his earlier visits to the French court that he prides himself on following some kind of medieval chivalric code. Well, we will see how much of a gentleman he is. Mordain and two of my best officers need treatment that we cannot provide so they need permission to pass to the mainland if they stand any chance of surviving.

"I want some of your musketeers to take those messages first thing in the morning."

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **\- Documents vary as to whether Buckingham waited 3 or 5 days to march on the Citadel so I've put him arriving on the 4th!**_

 _ **\- There were three French noblemen who were injured during the initial battle and a request was made to the English Duke for them to be permitted to go back to the mainland for more appropriate treatment. In the next chapter we'll find out who takes the messages and what the answer is.**_


	30. Chapter 30

_**Greetings, all. Many thanks to those who continue to follow and favourite this story and to those of you who comment. Events start to unfold in this chapter. The English are stereotypically renowned for not doing well with foreign languages (not always true) but I did have fun with writing a conversation (or two) between the French and English here when the English officer had the occasional French word and Treville and Aramis had no English at all! Meanwhile, the Treville/Savatier relationship deteriorates further.**_

CHAPTER 30

Shortly after nine the following morning, Athos and Claude stood in the medieval guildhall in the town of Saint Martin awaiting the arrival of the town's elders and the man who stood as the mayor, Pièrre Forniér. To pass the time, Athos carefully surveyed the room. Dark-wood panelling from floor to two-thirds up the high walls gave the large room an austere, foreboding appearance. A white-wash completed the walls up to the heavily beamed ceiling. In front of him was a raised platform that ran the full width of the hall. A long table with a number of high-backed wooden chairs faced the main floor and, on the wall behind the table, was a large version of the coat of arms of Saint-Martn-de-Ré; a white cross on a blue background, all painted upon a rough wood.

"I suppose we're waitin' on 'em to shift 'emselves from their beds," Claude grumbled. "Never mind we've nigh on done a day's work before they've stirred."

Athos grinned. "It makes for a far more interesting world when we are all different in the way we go about things."

"Aye, an' you'd know about these things, lad," Claude said wryly.

Athos cast him a doleful look but was saved from delivering a suitable riposte when a side door opened and four men entered, stepped up onto the platform and seated themselves in the middle chairs.

"Monsieur Forniér," Athos dipped his head in acknowledgement of the white-haired man who had assumed the largest chair in the very centre.

"Yes," came the gruff response, the man obviously unhappy about such an early audience. "And who might you be?"

"I am Athos of the King's Musketeers; I bring you a message from the Marquis de Toiras, Governor of the island." He held out the paper and waited until the man gestured for him to step forward and deliver it. Having done that, he returned to his place and waited in silence whilst Forniér perused its contents.

"So Toiras intends dong nothing; he will let the town fall into enemy hands?" the man sputtered with indignation.

"The Governor wishes to keep the English occupied from the Citadel and is charged with not allowing the island to fall into their hands but, more than that, neither he nor His Majesty, King Louis, wants the innocent civilians of France to suffer unnecessarily. That is why he gives a clear instruction to surrender and not resist the English," Athos explained diplomatically.

"But they could rob us, throw us out of our homes, take all the food - well, whatever's left after you lot have taken what you claim you needed. You are not going to protect us from that eventuality?"

"The Governor hopes ..." Athos began but was soundly interrupted.

"The Governor hopes, does he? Hopes what, Musketeer? That the English will be gentlemen and leave us alone? They'll knock on the door, announce their arrival and assure us that they'll not demand anything?"

The man was understandably upset but there was no hard and fast reassurance that Athos could provide. "The intention is not to bring the fighting into the streets of the town, to safeguard its inhabitants that way; that is why the Governor urges you not to put up any resistance."

Forniér pushed his chair back forcefully and stood up, the three other men following suit.

"So that is how it will be, Musketeer. The Governor of this island shows his true colours at last. He is sacrificing us to the English," and with his final announcement, he swept from the room.

Athos tried to object, to justify the decisions made by Toiras and his senior officers, but the man never gave him the opportunity.

He looked regretfully at Claude, "That went well."

"I think your diplomacy skills need a bit o' fine honin'," Claude said with a chuckle. "Never you mind, boy. 'E's only worried because the enemy might interrupt 'is inactivity and 'e could be expected to do somethin'."

...

Porthos and Aramis rode slowly from the gateway of the Citadel, each had one hand on the reins, the other held high and visible. Clutched in his raised hand, Aramis had a white cloth. Their saddle holsters were empty and neither wore their weapons belts. The horses walked on slowly along the road away from the high protective walls of the Citadel and towards the enemy camp. As they neared the first line of defence, English soldiers appeared and lined their route, training weapons upon them.

"Don't like this notion of ridin' out amongst this lot without somethin' I can use to defend myself," Porthos complained bitterly from the side of his mouth.

Aramis tried to flash a nonchalant smile at the enemy as his eyes, ever alert, watched for the slightest change in the behaviour of the men. "And what do you suppose you could do with a weapon amongst 'this lot'?"

"I could take a couple of them down with me," Porthos said.

"And that is really going to help matters. Toiras will definitely win this siege because Porthos has decreased the invading force by two," Aramis replied scornfully, still smiling at the English.

They did not look particularly friendly for none had returned his smiles and, instead, stood scowling at them whilst others deigned to shout at the pair although, for the life of them, the two musketeers could not understand what was being said; from the tone, they quickly surmised that they were not words of welcome.

Suddenly, four men blocked their path and, to avoid them, Porthos and Aramis nervously reined in. Unarmed as they were, they would not stand a chance if the English decided to drag them from their horses and set upon them.

"We have a message for the Duke of Buckingham," Aramis tried, slowly and loudly, carefully enunciating his words and looking from one to the other for any sign of understanding. "The Duke of Buckingham?" he repeated. He sighed and glanced towards Porthos, "It would help if they knew a little French or we knew a little English."

Two men were approaching on horseback and the others who blocked their path immediately split and backed towards the side of the road. The newcomers had the bearing of officers and one suddenly spoke up in halting French.

"Good day. Why are you coming here?"

Aramis used his charm and smiled again. "Good day. We are King's musketeers and we bring a message from Governor Toiras to the Duke of Buckingham." He held out the paper that bore the Marquis' seal.

The Englishman did not reach for it but turned his horse, calling back over his shoulder as he did so. "With me."

"I'm presuming he wishes us to follow him," Aramis concluded.

"Yeah, right little conversationalist, isn't he?" Porthos grinned.

Buckingham's command post was not situated in the very centre of the camp but far enough in for the Frenchmen to appreciate the size of the invading force encamped outside the Citadel. As trained soldiers, their eyes ranged everywhere as they instinctively absorbed all that they were passing in case they could take back any worth-while information.

Eventually, the men that led them halted outside a large tent flying a pennant with an ornate coat of arms and dismounted, passing their reins to armed soldiers who stepped forward unbidden. Another two appeared at Porthos and Aramis' side and held out their hands, seemingly for the same reason.

The man who had spoken to them before gestured towards the entrance to the tent. "Here," he ordered.

Silently they slid from their saddles and let the soldiers take the reins as they accepted the invitation to enter the tent. Several men were in there leaning over a map spread out on a table, a stream of unintelligible words passing between them. At the appearance of the two Frenchmen, all conversation stopped and eyes went to the man who had led them inside. He removed his hat and bowed his head before addressing the man at the centre of the group. who, tall with dark, curling hair, cut an impressive figure in a midnight- blue doublet with slashed sleeves, displaying a white, linen undersleeve. A wide collar finished in fine lace lay from his neck almost to his shoulder's edge. Dark eyes scrutinised the musketeers carefully as he fired a question at the man who had led them there. A brief exchange followed and then the Duke – for they assumed that's who he was – came round the table to stand before them. He continued to appraise them and they drew themselves up to their full height, determined to make as good an impression as they could.

"King's Musketeers," he suddenly said in passable French. "I recognise the pauldron and its symbol."

The two bowed their heads in deference to his title.

"I gather you have a message for me," he continued.

Aramis stepped forward and handed him the missive written by Toiras. Those gathered there watched without saying anything as the Duke broke the seal, opened up the paper and read its contents. When finished, he handed it to another well-dressed soldier whom Aramis presumed was another high ranking English officer. More words passed between them and the two musketeers watched them closely for any indication as to how the message had been received.

At length, Buckingham turned to them and smiled, although there was a certain haughtiness in the expression.

"You may return to your Governor Toiras. Tell him that the Duke of Buckingham sends his regards. I am not without compassion. We have lost men and have many wounded as, no doubt, do you. To demonstrate that I am a man of honour, I acquiesce to your Governor's request. Of course the three French noblemen can be transferred to the mainland for medical help. In fact, I will offer them transport in my own barge; it would be far more comfortable for them. I will make it available from noon. I would not presume to ask that we be allowed within the Citadel's harbour but there is a suitable landing place along the coast about half a mile from the eastern seaward point of your Citadel; the barge will await you there. I guarantee that those bringing the injured men will be given safe passage past our forward line and on their return."

"Thank you," Aramis began and hesitated, unsure how he was to address an English duke and settled for an address that he hoped sounded respectful and reasonably appropriate, "Sir."

Buckingham smiled, "It has been a pleasure meeting some of King Louis' élite guard; I remember hearing all about you during my brief sojourn at the French court two years ago. I will permit no more than ten of the King's regiment to escort the injured men and no-one else. Now, you will be taken back to the edge of our camp." He nodded to the man who had brought them in and, once they had bowed low at their dismissal, they retraced their steps to their mounts and departed for the Citadel.

...

Nearly thirty minutes before noon, the great gates of the Citadel opened and two men rode out side by side; Tréville and Savatier. They were followed by Athos and Porthos and then the cart bearing the three wounded noblemen and driven by Aramis. Four more musketeers rode behind, nine in total and within the maximum set by the Duke. There had been some discussion as to the wisdom of allowing Savatier to accompany the group in case they were riding into a trap and both senior officers of the regiment would be involved but it was a risk Tréville was prepared to take. There was nothing about their uniform to indicate their rank but, should they be seized, revlation of the same implied the trust they had initially put in the Duke's words and would be to the detriment to the nobleman's reputation and claims of honour if anything untoward should happen to the musketeer contingent on their errand of mercy.

They followed the road as far as possible and then the cart rumbled slowly down a track that was uneven, each jolt eliciting moans from the stricken men it carried and, with each audible expression of agony, Aramis bit his lower lip guiltily as he could not avoid adding to their suffering even though he tried to make a detour around the worst of the ruts. Their route was lined by the English down to the shore. There was, understandably, the same tension and suspicion in the air that Porthos and Aramis had encountered earlier in the day.

Tréville's last minute instructions before they had exited the Citadel were being followed to the letter for appearances' sake. They had ensured uniforms were spotless and leather cleaned, weapons were gleaming in the noon-day sun – for they refrained from going unarmed this time - and the blue musketeer capes fell from straight backs as they sat tall in their saddles. If the Duke remembered the regiment from two years before, they had made a favourable impression and Tréville wanted that to remain. The English were not to underestimate those who fought for the French King.

True to his word, Buckingham had provided his own barge, the flat-bottomed vessel coming almost to the beach before it was moored. The musketeers dismounted and moved round to the back of the cart, uncomfortable in the face of so many eyes watching their every action. They would have to wade to the barge, carrying the wounded men between them.

At that moment, a horseman rode along the shore-line towards them. It was the English officer who had met Aramis and Porthos. They stood, shoulder to shoulder, and nodded their recognition as he alighted from his horse and strode to meet them.

"Captain," Aramis called, never taking his eyes off the Englishman. He sensed the musketeer captain coming to stand at his right shoulder and gestured to the enemy officer. "This is the man Porthos and I met this morning. He speaks a little French."

Tréville acknowledged the man with a nod, his own face remaining impassive.

"This is Captain Tréville of the King's Musketeers," Aramis explained.

Immediately the man snapped to attention, suggesting that he was outranked and demonstrating respect in this diplomatic meeting.

"Good day, Captain," he greeted and faltered, obviously struggling to find the French vocabulary to continue. "The sick men ... here," and he waved towards the barge. "The Duke of Buckingham has."

Tréville looked at Aramis in confusion. "The Duke has what?"

Aramis shrugged, equally nonplussed. "I haven't a clue."

The three men stood and stared at each other, wondering how to proceed.

"The Duke ... boat ... with men ... there." The Englishman accompanied his words with a wildly exaggerated mime, pointing to the barge, the cart and across to La Rochelle in turn. "We ..." and he swept an arm to encompass a number of soldiers standing closest to them, "there."

He snapped his fingers and a group of infantrymen laid their weapons on the ground or handed them to colleagues before breaking the line to gather at the back of the cart. The musketeers stood aside as the three wounded men were gently lifted from the bed of the cart and carried through the shallows to the barge where more men waited to lift them on board. Strains of music drifted across the water to their ears.

Astonished, the Musketeers gazed open-mouthed at the barge and studied it properly. It was lavishly lined and upholstered with scarlet fabric and musicians stood at the stern, playing softly.

"What the ...?" Tréville muttered under his breath as he stared incredulously at the scene.

"The whole thing is ridiculous, an obscenity. The Duke is a pampered, boastful nobleman with far more money than sense," came an low, angry voice behind him. Tréville chose torewarded ignore Savatier's outburst with a disdainful glare and then turned his back on him.

"Music ... men ... happy," the Englishman announced proudly as he saw the wounded men settled on cushions. He turned to the Captain and smiled as he extended a hand. "Thank you. Goodbye."

Tréville took the extended hand and shook it, the gesture speaking volumes in its own way: mutual respect between officers of opposing sides in a conflict, the offer of a compassionate gesture and appreciation of the same, and a symbol of temporary unanimity. Were their paths ever to cross again, they would be endeavouring to kill each other.

The barge began to move away smoothly through the water thanks to the team of liveried rowers whilst the Musketeers returned to their horses, remounted and led the cart away from the shoreline through a wall of curious and semi-hostile silence from the English soldiers.

Once back within the confines of the Citadel, cart unhitched and horses stabled, Tréville prepared to go and make his report to the Governor, reassuring him that the men would be well cared for in transit to the mainland but something rankled.

As Savatier went to pass him, declaring that he was going to check on those currently on duty, Tréville's hand shot out and caught him by the arm. His expression remained neutral and his words were low so that none of the other musketeers could hear him.

"Be thankful that the Englishman spoke very little French for you deliberately did not take care to modulate your voice. I do not care what your opinion is of the Duke of Buckingham. He may be our enemy but he has helped three of our colleagues, whether you approved of his methods or not. Today we witnessed some compassion and humanity; things not to be sneered at but graciously accepted when we are otherwise at war. Behave like that again when we are engaged in a delicate diplomatic gesture and I will have you on a charge."

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **\- I forgot to say in the previous chapter that the English did blockade the island to prevent supplies getting through to the besieged Citadel.**_

 _ **\- Buckingham could speak French although I may have made him more fluent that he actually was for convenience both here and later with regards to ease of communication.**_

 _ **\- The Duke did provide his personal barge to transport the three noblemen to the mainland. According to a document, it was lined with red fabric and he did have his musicians playing to smooth the passage of the injured Frenchmen. Apparently, not only did he have his barge but also he had brought with him his own carriage, horses and footmen! (I wonder what Savatier would say to that!)**_


	31. Chapter 31

_**Dear all, thank you for the continued comments and words of encouragement. I'm pleased that so many of you are also intrigued by the history so this chapter gives you a few more historical notes to peruse at your leisure if you wish. May I take this opportunity to apologise for the few grammatical errors in the last chapter; I was having laptop problems and flitting from one to the other so some unforgivable carelessness crept in.**_

 _ **A couple of you have asked if this is the R**_ _ **é**_ _ **conflict where Aramis gets his scar that he mentions in S1E1 but he apparently specifies a date – 1622. There was a naval battle off Saint-Martin-de-R**_ _ **é**_ _ **in October, 1622, (was he on board?) with the Huguenots but there was land fighting in other places (not on R**_ _ **é**_ _ **itself that I can find – that was 1625). The other areas, where there were very heavy Royalist losses (1000 of the King's army defeated by 400 Huguenots in one battle alone), included Montpellier which resulted in the Treaty that the others tell d'Artagnan about in a much earlier chapter. Therefore, Aramis already has the musket scar on his shoulder by this part of the story.**_

 _ **Perhaps it was before he became a musketeer for 1622, of course, was the year Louis XIII created the regiment. The 'real' Tr**_ _ **éville (Troisvilles) was the equivalent of lieutenant at the time, not becoming Captain-Lieutenant (the highest rank possible because the King was the Captain) until 1634.**_

CHAPTER 31

With the elders of Saint Martin having been instructed to offer no resistance, Buckingham quickly took possession of the town. Tréville and the _Inseparables_ stood, amongst others, on the battlements and watched through spy glasses as the English moved through the streets. There were occasional screams to be heard but they were the result of surprise and trepidation as opposed to any threatening, uncouth behaviour on the part of the invaders.

"Do you think Buckingham will take a billet in the town?" Aramis asked.

"I don't know," Tréville replied honestly. "He might stay in one of the larger houses or just requisition a building for his command post during the day. He might consider himself too close to the Citadel for safety and prefer to stay at a distance out in the camp or, who knows, he may spend time back on board his flagship so that he can keep closer contact with the fleet. We anticipate that he might even leave troops here – after all, _we_ are not able to go anywhere – and head to La Rochelle to relieve the Huguenots there."

"How long do you think that this siege will continue?" Porthos wanted to know.

Tréville shook his head. "I really have no idea. We need to keep a close eye on the enemy preparations; they have already begun digging trenches for their own defences. The siege could last for weeks, months even. It will no doubt depend upon how long we can eke out our food in the event of a full blockade. Having studied the ships' positions, gaps remain through which Louis and Richelieu might succeed in sending supplies if and when they can."

"I presume it also depends upon whether or not the English carry out an effective assault on the Citadel. We have not seen any evidence of their artillery as yet," Athos pointed out.

"Indeed, we should be thankful that work on strengthening the external walls was completed," Tréville agreed. "Perhaps, if we're stuck here long enough, we can work on finishing the other alterations; it might keep minds and hands active and out of trouble."

"Not quite sure I 'ave the skills of a stone mason," Porthos laughed.

"Never mind, brother," Aramis slapped him affectionately on the back, "we'll just take advantage of your strength. You can leave the fancy work to Athos and me here."

Athos merely raised an eyebrow speculatively; he had never considered himself as artistic by any means.

Tréville allowed himself a smile, amused that the humour of the three had not faded with recent events. A sobering thought struck him. "And how are the injured today, Aramis?"

"Making good progress. Now the wounded officers have been removed to the mainland, we have none remaining who have fevers. Whilst the more seriously wounded come from other regiments, only three musketeers remain in the infirmary; the rest are back in camp and fit to return to light duties," Aramis explained.

"And the three are?" the Captain wanted to know.

"Davide, Trufeau and," he hesitated as he looked from the officer to his two friends, "Delacroix."

Porthos snorted his disgust and Athos rolled his eyes.

The Captain frowned. "How soon will he be back on duty?"

"He's practising moving around with the aid of a crutch and could be putting a little weight down in another week but it'll be a bit longer before he can fully bear weight. He could be put to light work at any time really."

Tréville fell silent, lost in thought and then made a decision. "Walk with me," he ordered and when Aramis was the only one to fall into step beside him, he added, "all of you."

Porthos and Athos exchanged curious glances and hurried to catch up with the pair and it soon became clear that Tréville's destination was none other than the infirmary.

Entering the room, he paused as he looked down the rows of beds, some now thankfully empty due to the recovery of occupants, until he saw Delacroix stretched out full length on his blanket.

As he saw the officer approach, Delacroix hastened to push himself up until he was sitting. His face initially registered surprise and pleasure at the Captain's visit but then he saw who followed in his wake and the smile froze on his face. Tréville indicated with his hand that the three friends should stand back from the bed and, ostensibly, out of earshot of anything that he was about to say.

The Captain pulled up a chair and positioned it close to Delacroix, lowering himself onto it as though tired.

"Captain," Dealcroix acknowledged nervously, wondering where the conversation was going to lead.

"Good afternoon, Delacroix. How's the foot?" The question was seemingly innocuous, the well-meant inquiry from an officer to one of his men but both knew that the question carried a much deeper significance.

"It's getting better, Sir," Delacroix swallowed awkwardly. "Thank you for asking."

Tréville leaned in closer and lowered his voice further so that it was little more than a whisper. "You and I both know that the origin of your injury is questionable so do not take me for a fool and insist that you were shot by an Englishman or try to convince me that you accidentally discharged your weapon. We both know what happened and you ought to be ashamed of yourself. In the five years that I have commanded this regiment, I have never known a musketeer do what you have done; I have never been witness to such an act of cowardice as this.

"Now this is what is going to happen and you are going to nod your head in agreement in a moment in response to the question I will put to you. If you refuse, I shall tell the three men behind me to leave this room and tell everyone they meet about your blatant cowardice and the entire regiment will ostracise you with immediate effect. You might pray that I have leverage over the medic who did tend to your wound, otherwise you may find that this story goes further afield without musketeer assistance.

"I have already had occasion to warn you because of the fracas with Athos. He is unaware of what I am saying to you now and I will say this only the once; you will refrain from doing anything else against him whilst we are on this island otherwise I will give him and his friends the same instruction to spread this story. Your reputation will be ruined. I should have you court martialled – Lord knows we have the time at present - and probably shot but, I repeat, I need every available fighting man right now and, therefore, you have a chance to redeem yourself.

"Rest assured, Delacroix, if I have any further trouble from you during this siege, I will ensure that should the Governor expect this regiment to produce a forlorn hope, you will be the first to volunteer. Do you understand me? Now is the time for you to nod very obviously."

As Tréville had been speaking, Delacroix' eyes widened in terror and now, with his mouth open, he could do little more than nod his agreement.

"And smile," the Captain ordered, rising to his feet.

The smile was sickly and half-hearted but it was there.

Tréville patted him on the shoulder in a conciliatory manner, turned on his heel and marched from the room. "Come," he ordered the others as he swept past them and, thoroughly confused, they complied without question. Once outside, he stopped and rounded on them. "We all know how he came to be injured. I am telling you now, I have dealt with it. The matter is not to be discussed with anyone and I do not expect to hear it mentioned again but should the need ever arise, I will order you to tell everyone you see what he has done. Understand?"

The three agreed warily and watched together as he hastened away.

Porthos breathed out loudly. "Phew. I don't think 'e's very 'appy with Delacroix."

"Why would he be where Delacroix is concerned?" Athos answered with another question and then looked directly at the marksman who had been working in the infirmary. "How did he suspect Delacroix in the first place?"

Aramis gave the appearance of total innocence. "He knew Delacroix was injured from the casualty list which gives the soldier's name and the nature of the injury. It was not long before he sought me out to ask me directly so I told him exactly what I told you and since then he has been asking me for a daily update on our wounded. However, I believe that our Captain is far from happy with Savatier too."

The others had no idea what he meant so, as they walked from the infirmary back to the overcrowded room they shared with several of their comrades, he explained all that he had heard and seen.

…..

Over the next couple of days, the English were hard at work and many within the Citadel were up on the battlements watching proceedings for want of something to occupy themselves when duties and training were completed. They were therefore swelling the number of those on guard. The length and depth of the trenches were growing slowly but steadily, creating a snaking border round the multi-pointed fortified walls that made up the distinctive star shape of the Citadel.

From his position on watch, Aramis studied what the English were doing, seemingly wrapt by their activity and a slightly puzzled expression on his face.

"What's the matter?" Athos asked as he joined him. Leaning against the wall, he held out an apple whilst taking a large bite out of another.

Aramis accepted the fruit, grateful that they still had access to fresh produce and bit into it as he continued to look out over the earth works that were being created. "I'm not sure. It doesn't look right."

His curiosity aroused, Athos pushed away from the wall and turned to gaze down upon the English. "What do you think is wrong then?" His inquiry was genuine as he respected his brother's instincts.

Aramis was finding it hard to pinpoint what was amiss and carefully scrutinised the activity between the Citadel and the camp.

"I would have brought the trench more this way, following that lie of the land through there," and he indicated a line closer to the Citadel than the route which the English were currently taking.

Athos leaned through the opening to scrutinise the ground immediately below the wall and then out towards the trench and the camp beyond.

"Is it the distance that bothers you?" he asked quietly.

Aramis suddenly raised his musket and balanced the barrel on the edge of the wall and looked down the sights. He straightened up, gauged the distance with the naked eye and then resumed his initial position. A few moments later, he straightened again to deliver his verdict.

"They're too far away."

"What?" Athos asked. Surely the enemy could not have made such a fundamental error?

""They're digging the trenches too far away. They're beyond musket range. It would be exceedingly hard for us to hit anything."

Athos' face darkened with frustration.

"But there is another advantage," Aramis smiled. "If we can't hit them, they can't hit us!"

...

The following day and joined by Porthos and Tréville, they were in the same position on the battlements as the English artillery rolled into view.

Porthos was dismissive, "They don't look very frightening. What kind of damage are they going to do?"

Tréville was thoughtful as gun teams positioned their cannon at strategic points along the edge of the earthworks that had been dug so far.

"That can't be all of them, surely?" Aramis queried, his eyes roaming the English encampment for any more weaponry to materialise.

Instead of answering, the Captain used his spyglass to look more closely at the enemy activity and the _Inseparables_ were stunned as he started to laugh softly to himself.

"It's incredible. The guns they have are too few and too small. You are quite correct, Porthos; there is little damage they can do to these walls, especially from that distance."

Athos shook his head in disbelief. "So what you're saying is that not only are they digging their trenches in the wrong place but their artillery is totally inadequate for the task."

"That would be an accurate summation," Tréville said, gracing them all with a rare, broad grin; it was an expression of elation that they had not seen in him for a while and it warmed them to see him so pleased.

It was not long, though, before Aramis frowned. "What are they doing with those two guns at the far right?"

The four men moved round the wall to the next point in the star-shaped ramparts to afford them a better look but again, Tréville resorted to the use of his spyglass.

"A group of men have gathered back between the two guns. They look like officers and," he paused as he concentrated, "I do believe that Buckingham is in their midst. It may be a couple of years since I last saw him but his clothing and stance are unmistakable. Someone is talking very animatedly to him."

"What are those two guns aiming at now?" Athos wanted to know. "They have definitely been turned away from the Citadel walls."

Tréville moved the spyglass to the right and tried to fix on the new targets, almost holding his breath as he hoped that it would not harm local residents of the island ... and then he saw.

"They can't be!" he was incredulous. "They're aiming at two windmills on the outskirts of town."

"What did the windmills ever do to them?" Aramis objected.

Porthos was more scathing in his disapproval. "Come on, they can't hit this great big Citadel with those stupid little guns and make an impression so they're going to pretend they're really frightening by attacking a smaller stone and wooden structure."

"The local people will not be able to mill their grain." Athos was more practical. "Is Buckingham punishing them for some reason? They did not resist when he overwhelmed the town; such an action is therefore unnecessary."

He had barely finished speaking when the two guns fired simultaneously. Both mills were hit, sails shattering into thousands of pieces of splintered wood. The gun crews moved swiftly into action and it was clear that they were preparing to fire again as quickly as possible.

The Governor appeared behind Tréville, breathing hard. "I heard guns."

Pointeing to the wanton destruction, the Captain explained what had just transpired.

Toiras reddened in the face. "Show them that we are not prepared to put up with their nonsense. Get your men to open fire."

Tréville bellowed a string of rapid orders that could be heard echoing further round the wall and brought men running to take up positions, two men per crenel, match cords glowing as they primed their weapons. One of the cannons below belched its shot again and stonework erupted as one of the windmills took another direct hit.

"Fire when ready," Tréville ordered.

Aramis was first to fire, with Athos and Porthos following in quick succession before a barrage of musket fire exploded along the wall.

As the smoke from the weapons cleared, Tréville struggled to suppress a smug smile. "I think you'll find, Governor, that we have definitely shown them something."

"So Buckingham has taken to tilting at windmills," Athos muttered to no-one in particular.

"What's that?"

"Oh nothing, I was just thinking of a character in a Spanish novel. He was a knight who went on a quest and tried tilting at windows," Athos explained.

"I worry about you sometimes," Porthos said in consternation. "Sometimes I think you do too much reading for your own good."

They did not need to use a spyglass to see the distant figures pick themselves up from the ground and the gun crews re-position their cannons before retreating. The demonstration of bravado – if that was what it was – had concluded for the day.

Spirits were high within the Citadel that evening for the first time in the days since they had withdrawn inside its walls, for the English seemed doomed to failure with such serious shortcomings and poor judgement.

"I don't think this siege'll last long," Porthos speculated as the three friends sipped at a watery ale.

Athos grimaced and shuddered at the taste which elicited a chuckle from the big musketeer.

"Drink enough of this and you'll soon stop noticing how bad it is," Aramis laughed.

Taking another mouthful, Athos visibly tensed and closed his eyes as he forced himself to swallow. "I want it understood by both of you here and now that I will _never_ grow accustomed to this disgusting apology for an alcoholic beverage. What I wouldn't give for a fine vintage red wine."

"Well if Porthos is correct, the siege will soon be over, the English will sail away, we'll be out of here and you can buy all the vintage red you can until the coin runs out,"

"It's early days yet," Athos warned. "The English will sort themselves out and they will not be making the same mistakes."

"Do you always 'ave to be the voice of doom and gloom?" Porthos asked.

"Of course he doesn't," Aramis reassured him with a slap on the shoulder. "Athos just likes to be cautious, that's all. He doesn't want to underestimate the enemy. I expect he's sitting there even now running a load of possibilities through his head of things that the English might get up to next."

"You know what your trouble is?" Porthos gestured towards Athos with his half empty cup. "You don't know when to give up an' rest."

"I am resting, my friend," Athos responded. "I just do not think we can plan on going home any time soon."

"We shall see," laughed Porthos. "We shall see."

...

They did not have long to wait.

The three friends were back on the early duty on the battlements. The weather was fine and the temperature quickly rose so that they were soon sweating inside their heavy leather doublets. The hours crept interminably towards noon and, with one water skin shared between them, its contents were soon depleted.

"We need more," Porthos moaned, shaking the empty skin.

"I went last time," Aramis said assertively as he was determined that it was not his turn so soon.

"And as I was the one to remember to bring it full in the first place, it is not my responsibility to refill it on this occasion," Athos declared, not shifting his attention away from the English camp.

"It looks like it's up to you after all," Tréville said cheerily as he came along the narrow battlement walk towards them.

Porthos sighed heavily as if greatly put upon and then his face broke into a wide grin as he took the water skin and descended the nearest flight of stone steps to the courtyard below which held the well.

At his vantage point, Athos stiffened and raised his spyglass to his right eye.

Tréville noticed the change and stepped up to him. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"There's movement at the edge of the camp; a large group of men ..."

"How many?" Tréville demanded.

"Two hundred, maybe more," Athos replied, his voice surprised. "They're spreading out into lines. They're ..." His voice broke off.

"Let me see," the Captain insisted, holding out a hand to take the spyglass in order to see for himself.

Athos stepped back from the crenel, his face a picture of unadulterated horror. "Archers," he breathed.

"What?" Tréville was convinced he had not heard him correctly.

Galvanised into action, Athos spun round to look down on the courtyard below where many men were sparring, cleaning weapons and simply wiling away the time. "Archers!" he roared. "Take cover!"

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **The white flag used for a truce or surrender (as seen in the last chapter) was first mentioned as used in the Roman Empire in AD 109.**_

 _ **The first mention of the 'forlorn hope' (soldiers sent on an almost impossible mission) was in the late 16**_ _ **th**_ _ **century. Guarding the King was only part of the Musketeers' responsibility. As a highly trained,**_ _ **é**_ _ **lite group, they were often sent in first in battle.**_

 _ **Once the siege started, it was thought that Buckingham would transfer his attention to La Rochelle but he was determined to take the Citadel first and committed his men to a long and unnecessary siege.**_

 _ **The Duke's siege engineer had, in fact, drowned during the beach landing. The first line of English trenches were too far away and beyond musket range!**_

 _ **The responsibility of setting up the artillery fell to his master gunner, who assured him that everything would be fine when they were set up. The guns were too small and too few for the task!**_

 _ **As a demonstration of the guns working, the English did target windmills, resulting in much destruction but the French opened fire and they soon stopped!**_

 _ **Miguel de Cervantes' 'Don Quixote' was translated into French, Part I in 1614 and Part II by 1618.**_

 _ **Buckingham had requested that up to 25% of his force would be made up of English archers. The Deputy-Lieutenants of four counties expressed regret that the order arrived days after their levied troops had set off for embarkation points. They were going to be sent in the August relief force of the Earl of Holland but Buckingham must have had some archers in his initial contingent as French sources relating to the Expedition mention English arrows shot into the fort. This was the last time archers made up a significant portion of an English army and the last time they officially served overseas in a continental war. (The number I have specified – less than 3% here - is mine as I couldn't find an actual figure.) Archers were still used on home soil later in the early years of the English Civil War.**_


	32. Chapter 32

**_Dear all, thank you for your continued support. I am uploading this in haste as I am about to leave family and head back home in the next couple of hours so I have not done a careful proof read. All errors are definitely mine (like Athos tilting at windows in the last chapter!) The next chapter will be up in the first part of next week. Until then, I hope you'll enjoy this._**

CHAPTER 32

Only seconds managed to elapse from when Athos shouted his frantic warning until the arrival of the first hail of arrows, too soon for many of the men to reach cover. Their terrified shouts as they scrambled for any conceivable sanctuary were peppered by the screams of those felled by the incoming missiles.

Those caught on the battlements had nowhere to run and curled up into defensive balls tight against the wall, making themselves as small as possible: knees drawn up close to chests, heads down and protected by raised arms as they prayed that an arrow through the wrist might slow an arrow enough in its downward descent that it might not pierce the skull. For many of them, depending upon where they were crouched along the star-shaped Citadel wall, their position afforded them some protection from the released arrows but those on the opposite side of the point were the most vulnerable. They died where they sat or, as they broke for cover, they were cut down as they ran, sprawling headlong on the walkway or plunging from its narrow path to the courtyard below.

"Porthos!" Aramis called out, mindful that the big musketeer had gone down to get water only moments before the assault began.

"Don't move!" Athos ordered, daring to peer out from beneath an arm.

The ranged volleys continued and Athos was angry at being rendered so helpless by a frighteningly effective yet somewhat archaic form of warfare. In his two years as a musketeer, he had never been subjected to such methods and he would have to confess to being more than a little scared by the relentless onslaught. Deliberately distracting himself, he thought back to the military history that his father had insisted he studied. At first, he had been reluctant, thinking that it was yet another onerous task to be foisted upon him during his preparation as heir to his father's title until he discovered a fascination for what he had learned about the stories of past conflicts and the minutiae of battle strategies.

His mind raced as he recalled information from years ago that might give him some indication as to how long his life and the lives of those around him might hang in the balance. The English longbow men of the medieval period were renowned for being a force to be reckoned with, such was their physical strength. They could let loose ten to twelve arrows a minute for a while but were unlikely to sustain that level of release for long because they would become exhausted. There was also the issue of the supply of arrows; they usually carried up to twenty-four but at the start of a battle were issued with up to seventy each. Boys would then bring them more as a battle developed.

He tried to rationalise what was happening. Could these archers be as skilled as their forebears? He had to believe that they were otherwise there was little point in bringing them as an integral part of the invading force. What was being unleashed upon them now was sheer luck on the part of the English. They had no idea what was within the Citadel walls and could have been releasing arrows into an empty space for all they knew. Therefore, they were unlikely to maintain the strength of the ranged volleys, nor would they want to waste arrows unnecessarily.

A sudden pained grunt broke into his reverie and he lowered his hands enough to see Tréville brace himself against the wall, gasping. Something was wrong.

"Captain?" Athos reached out a hand intending to steady the other man but before he could do so, Tréville's eyes rolled in his head and he pitched forward towards the younger musketeer who caught him and eased him down into a sitting position on the walkway before he smashed his face on the uneven stones. He sat there, eyes shut tight as he concentrated on controlling his breathing, his doublet torn and blood running freely down the outside of his left arm from where an arrow had gouged a path through the flesh.

"Aramis!" yelled Athos but even as his friend turned startled eyes in his direction, there was a searing pain across his brow as something clattered by his side and the vision in his left eye dimmed. He heard his own name being shouted but he slumped back against the wall, disorientated and swiping at the wetness that ran down the side of his face; his hand coming away red with blood. Sounds became muted as if he were trying to listen underwater and the courtyard below him began to swim before his eyes.

It was some time before he realised that the arrows had ceased to fall. Porthos was at his side, pulling him up to his feet and putting an arm round his waist to support him down the treacherous staircase. It vaguely registered with him that men sprawled lifeless in the dust of the courtyard, some unfortunate souls having been hit by more than one arrow. As he was helped into the infirmary and made to sit on the side of a cot, he glanced at the hustle and bustle around him as the wounded were carried in and men with even limited medical knowledge tried to assist them. The room was filled with the moans and cries of those with varying degrees of injury and he tried to shut out all the sounds of suffering.

Hands on his shoulders attempted to make him lie back but he resisted.

"Athos, I want you to lie down and rest while I look at that head injury," Aramis was saying.

"No," Athos said determinedly. "I'm taking up space someone else can have. I'll just sit on a chair," and he made to stand up but his limbs suddenly seemed totally unco-ordinated and Porthos pushed him back

"No you don't," the big musketeer insisted. "You stay there so that Aramis can examine you properly."

"I'm not hurt that badly; there are others far worse off than me who need your help first," Athos persisted. He frowned, "Tréville! How is he?"

"He's on the next cot to you, in pain but conscious. I will give him my full attention in a minute as soon as I'm sure that you are all right," Aramis declared.

Sweeping Athos' hair clear of his forehead, Aramis began dabbing at the wound with a wet cloth to clean it and ascertain the extent of the injury. Athos hissed and sucked in his breath and tried to move his head out of the way but Aramis held him fast by the chin and doggedly continued in his work.

"Now you know how I felt the other day," Aramis grinned.

"I'm sure I was not so heavy-handed," Athos complained.

"Of course not," Aramis humoured him and then grew more serious. "You both were incredibly lucky. What we think happened is that an arrow came down a little short, hit the wall where there was a fault in the stonework and you were hit by a piece that splintered off. There was a chunk of it and an arrow by your side. Likewise with Tréville; it wasn't a direct hit. Again we think an arrow hit the wall and was deflected. Sadly, he was in the way. Yours doesn't look deep and I don't think it needs stitches but we all know how much head wounds can bleed, making them appear worse than they actually are. I'm fairly certain it won't scar and damage your good looks! I will leave Porthos to finish cleaning it."

"Will you keep still?" Porthos grumbled a few minutes later as Athos constantly wriggled beneath his ministrations in an attempt to see what was happening with the Captain. "The sooner you do as you're told, the sooner I finish up here an' the sooner you can see what's happenin' to the Captain."

Aramis smothered a smile as he listened to the chastisement and knew that Porthos could more than handle the situation so he concentrated upon the officer lying before him.

"How are you feeling?" Aramis asked him as he started to clean the wound.

Tréville answered from between gritted teeth, his face contorted with agony. "Could feel better but then, looking on the more positive side, I could be feeling a whole lot worse or not at all."

Aramis chuckled, "Very true. This is going to need quite a few stitches; it's deep and long. I'm not sure whether we have any brandy in this place. I could mix you a sleeping draft if that would help."

"Just do what you have to," Tréville ground out. "Get it over with."

Aramis nodded, turned to the contents of a small leather bag that he had laid out on a small table in readiness and reach for a needle.

…

Tréville stood at the one window of the room that had been assigned to him, subconsciously readjusting the sling that supported his left arm and wincing at the stab of pain it elicited. Aramis had offered him a further draft of painkilling herbs but he had declined, the physical a manifestation of the emotional pain he felt for he had lost a further three musketeers to the onslaught and five others, including himself and Athos, who had received hurts. Once again, the regiment had suffered a smaller number of casualties than elsewhere and he had to be thankful for that.

His musings were interrupted by a familiar figure emerging from a doorway below him and felt an uncomfortable pang of regret. Although they had never developed what he would class as a friendship, he had always thought that they had a good working relationship but since leaving Paris, that had deteriorated rapidly and, he thought, to an irreversible degree. For the life of him, he could not fathom the reason and it hurt to think that he could have misjudged a man so badly.

Savatier crossed one of the inner courtyards of the Citadel at a brisk pace towards an archway that led to another section of the fortress. There was something about the determined way he walked, head down and not even acknowledging the few musketeers who were sitting in the fading light that alerted Tréville's attention as he looked down from his first floor window.

Even as he watched, Sevatier reached the archway and had almost passed through it when he paused and looked back to see if anyone was taking notice of him. Apparently satisfied and failing to look up at the figure who witnessed his every move, he swiftly disappeared.

Intrigued, Tréville briskly descended the staircase to the lower level and made his way outside, intent upon finding out where his lieutenant was heading. He realised that in the time since they had moved within the Citadel's walls, his movements had been restricted and he was only familiar with a small portion of the extensive buildings and levels that made up the fortification. Areas were so similar at first glance within the repetitive shape that it was easy to lose one's sense of direction and he had, in a very short space of time, become a creature of habit, moving through only those sections of hallways, rooms and some courtyards that were necessary. In fact, he had only been around half the battlements, those from the eastern edge by the sea and round to the south.

He wondered just how well Savatier knew his way around as there had been no hesitation in his movements, only apparent guile. What was he doing?

Through the archway a path wound round between high walls and he quickly lost sight of the man he was following. Eventually the path opened up to reveal the Citadel's harbour into which they had sailed so long ago – or so it seemed. The path ended abruptly in the quayside although, slightly to his right, huge and uneven rocks disappeared into the still water and round beyond the edge of the Citadel's wall. He looked to his left, along the quay but Savatier was nowhere in sight as dusk became more pronounced.

Where had the man gone and why?

...

Early the next morning, Athos was up on the battlements in the place he seemed to have adopted as his own, even when he was not on duty. This was one of those moments and he was wiling away the time looking down upon the English camp and the activity within. From the set of his shoulders, Tréville knew he was on alert even though he did not need to be for there were plenty of trustworthy men at their posts.

The Captain glanced around,wondering where the other two _Inseparables_ were but there was no sign of them. He deliberately accentuated his footfalls on the walkway, intending to announce his approach for he did not want to surprise the younger man, so intent was his concentration upon the scene below him.

Athos did not move as Tréville stopped beside him. "How's the arm?"

"Sore, but I'll live. What about you? How's the head?"

"Likewise. It's beginning to scab over already."

They stood in silence for a while, looking out at the English.

"Where are Aramis and Porthos?" Tréville suddenly asked, his voice low and measured.

Immediately, Athos sensed from his tone that there was more to come from the older man at his side. He answered equally quietly. "Aramis is about his duties in the infirmary and Porthos is training some of men in hand to hand combat."

Tréville nodded his approval and hesitated, unsure of how to begin. "I have a task for you and I do not want you to tell even them. Do you understand? I know I am asking a lot but ..."

Athos waited patiently.

"I do not know why I am asking this. I have no real grounds for suspicion. Call it instinct, a gut reaction."

For the first time, Athos turned his green eyes upon the officer, noting the turmoil in the other man as he spoke. "Then that is good enough for me. Ask. You know I will do anything."

"I know that and I have asked you to undertake some difficult missions in the past ..."

"This another difficult mission?"

Tréville sighed. "I really don't know. I hope not but I do not recall having had to do this in the past, to ask one of my men to spy upon another."

He watched Athos' reaction as he spoke. There was nothing save for the raising of one eyebrow, a testament to his curiosity.

"And who might that be?" Athos asked, feeling that he might already know.

"Savatier. I need you to follow and watch him. I fear that he is up to something and I do not know what. Considering where we are, I doubt that it is innocent and free from danger. Will you do it?"

There was no necessity for the question and no hesitation in Athos' answer."I will."


	33. Chapter 33

**_Dear all, apologies for the delay but here is the next chapter. Hopefully, the plot thickens! Many thanks to those of you who commented on the last chapter. It is, as always, wonderful to hear from you. So, what have Athos and Treville found out?_**

CHAPTER 33

It was nearly midnight when a tap came lightly on the door of the ground floor room that Tréville was using as a temporary office whilst stationed at the Citadel. It felt strange to him that his sleeping quarters were quite separate on the floor above, different from what he had grown accustomed to back in Paris, although he had to admit that it was through personal choice that he spent so much time within the garrison, close to the men in his charge and thereby neglecting the additional townhouse his rank afforded him.

The tap was so soft that he could have missed it had his ears not been attuned to the slightest sound in the still of the night. He did not call an instruction to enter that might have been heard elsewhere; instead he rose, went to the door, opened it and waited for Athos to slip inside from the corridor that was dimly illuminated by occasional torches in their metal sconces.

Neither spoke until the door was closed safely behind the late visitor and he had accepted Tréville's gesture of invitation to sit. The Captain handed him a pewter cup of brandy and it was not until he had sipped at the fiery liquid that he appreciated quite how chilled he had become in his nocturnal wanderings.

"Thank you," he acknowledged before taking another mouthful.

"Well?" Tréville cradled his own cup between still hands as he waited for the latest report.

"Exactly the same thing as before," Athos said succinctly, for this was his third successive night of watching the inexplicable behaviour of the regiment's surly lieutenant. "He waits until dusk and follows the same route down to the harbour where he clambers over the rocks at low tide in a cove beyond the Citadel wall. He seems to be looking for something between the larger rocks at a certain point and then, not finding whatever it is, he just sits down until the tide turns, when he makes his way to the quayside again before he gets cut off by rising water."

Tréville looked thoughtful. "And he does this in near darkness?"

"That's right but I believe he has been doing it for longer than we think, from before you first saw him. There is no hesitation on his part when traversing the rocks; he has a well-known and practised route. Mind you, it is not totally dark as we head towards a full moon but he certainly does not attract attention to himself," Athos explained. "I think the significance is the low tide rather than the time of night."

"What do you think he is waiting for?" Tréville asked, already having formed his own hypothesis.

"Someone, something – a message perhaps that is to be brought to shore under cover of darkness and at low tide at the most private of locations he can find, given the fact that we are holed up within the Citadel."

"A message from the English?" Tréville wondered aloud. "Is he looking toward the English camp?"

Athos shook his head. "No, his eyes are always turned seaward."

"To the English fleet then?"

"Perhaps but I do not think so. If anything, I think it would be from the mainland. He angles himself in that direction and you have said that the enemy blockade is not fool-proof; there are enough gaps and ways to slip through it in a small vessel."

The two men sat in silence, each going over the known details in the search for a plausible explanation.

Tréville frowned. "If it comes from the mainland, the direction of La Rochelle, it is certainly not from formal channels from His Majesty or the Cardinal, for they would be trying to contact the Governor or me."

"And if its source is La Rochelle itself, is he in league with the Huguenots?" Athos asked quietly, calmly. He watched as an almost imperceptible change came over the Captain.

"Then he is a traitor," Tréville said flatly and slumped back in his chair. Whatever he had been speculating regarding the behaviour of his second, this was the fearful prospect he had tried his utmost to avoid. "I need more; something definite. I cannot act on supposition alone. To openly accuse him of some treachery would alert him to my suspicions and make me little more than a laughing stock were I to be proved wrong. If he is out to create trouble, an early challenge might not reveal whatever it is." He exhaled deeply as he came to a decision. "We have no choice but to continue in this manner until we have some evidence one way or the other."

Athos nodded his agreement." One more thing though. These past three nights I have been off duty. Both Aramis and Porthos are beginning to ask awkward questions as to my whereabouts, especially when we are amongst several sharing the same room; this is not Paris where I can give acceptable excuses for wanting to be in my own company. We are surrounded by walls and my evening excursions are obviously limited. It would help matters if I were to be given a series of evening duties that would explain my absence, even if the specifics relating to those duties remain vague. It would be even better if we could take the two of them into our confidence."

"I would prefer it if this remained between you and me."

"As you wish," Athos concurred. "It is just that I think you ought to know that Aramis has already expressed unease about Savatier."

"He has?" Tréville looked surprised. "What makes him say that?"

"Nothing more than an increased bad temper since we departed from Paris and a perceived disrespect to yourself," Athos replied.

The Captain was taken aback by the bluntness of the response, even though the perception was uncomfortably accurate. He cleared his throat. "That seems to be it precisely and I have wondered many times at its cause." Tréville smiled, "He does seem to have taken a great dislike to you though."

"There is no change there then. I cannot recall a time when he has given me the suggestion that he thought favourably of me with regards to anything. All I would need now is for him and Delacroix to unite forces and my life would become really interesting."

Tréville's features darkened. "Although I would hope that would be highly unlikely, I trust you would inform me if that were ever to happen. Given current circumstances and suspicions, I would have to intervene and you could not dissuade me."

From the older man's expression, Athos knew that there was no point in objecting. He would cross that particular bridge if he ever arrived at it. For now, his work done for the night, he rose and bade the officer a goodnight. He had reached the door, his hand extended towards the iron handle when Tréville spoke again.

"I will take back the duty roster from Savatier, give him some excuse about losing touch with the men through having to attend so many meetings. He can concentrate on managing training and exercise for all of you. For the foreseeable future, you will be assigned to late duties and I will create an inventive means of describing your responsibility. Rest well, Athos, and thank you."

Athos dipped his head in acknowledgement. "You too, Sir," and was gone.

…

Delacroix left the infirmary and was assigned tasks assisting Serge in food preparation, tasks that he could do seated with his foot elevated and yet he was not happy, constantly complaining and believing the work to be menial, beneath him. For several consecutive days, he looked at the duty roster, hoping that he would be assigned something more challenging and engaging but it was not to be. Out of interest, he always looked at the duties given his supposed friends so that he might gauge when he might have some company and then, from obsessive compulsion, he searched for the names of Athos and his brothers. Delacroix frowned when he read that the trio were separated yet again, if not by the time of their duties then definitely the set tasks. Aramis and Porthos were repeatedly given training sessions to lead whilst next to Athos' name, in Tréville's recognisable scrawl, it merely said 'guard duty' which covered a wide variety of possibilities.

The rebuke and warning imparted by Tréville still smarted and such was memory and perception of that day, he ignored the fact that his wound was self-inflicted and that he alone was responsible. Instead, he fixated on the advice to stay away from the morose musketeer. It was all Athos' fault and there was still that unfinished business of the postponed duel. Perhaps it would be better if he heeded Tréville's instruction for he definitely did not want to attract any more unwarranted attention.

There had to be some way, someone who would help him. There had to be those who would or could take retribution on his behalf. There must be others who disliked the man as much as he did.

Curious as to the nature of Athos' duties, Delacroix decided that he would find out where he was guarding for it might offer a valuable opportunity to take action should he be somewhere alone. He certainly would not have the reassuring presence and protection of his friends then; it was quite feasible that he would be at his most vulnerable. It was a chance not to be missed.

The first evening, Delacroix tried to limp around the extensive site of the Citadel, searching for where Athos might have been posted on duty but it was too much for him. Partially weight-bearing by this time, the cobbled parts made it almost impossible to cross with his crutch and he was soon sweating at the exertion and so gave up his undertaking. There had to be a better way.

Two days later, Serge had him serving food – a mutton stew with very little mutton and more vegetables – before the evening duty change and the _Inseparables_ were queuing amongst other men but Delacroix, senses alert, managed to listen to their conversation even as he distractedly spooned the stew into serving bowls.

"What 'ave you done to upset Tréville that he keeps givin' you these evenin' duties?" Porthos asked.

Athos shrugged. "Absolutely nothing. It's just the way he's drawn up the roster, that's all."

"It seems a bit odd, that's all we're saying," Aramis pointed out.

"Tell us where you are and we'll come along later and keep you company," Porthos offered.

"Then that would upset Tréville if he checked and found the pair of you distracting me from my responsibilities," Athos said lightly. He was the next to receive his food.

"There must be somewhere we could suddenly take cover if he were to materialise," Aramis insisted.

Athos shook his head and Delacroix felt his heart leap in excitement at the deliberate evasion that followed. "As much as I enjoy having the two of you around chatting all the time, especially when we are sharing the same room, I do love the solitude of guard duty late evening and into the night. It allows me time to think and you know I do not sleep well. I would only be tossing and turning and consequently risk waking you up."

As much as he did not like Delacroix, it was not in his make-up to be openly rude so he nodded his thanks to the man for serving his food, even if it was slopped into a bowl from a greater height and thereby splashing hot stew over the back of his hand and the turned-back cuff of his doublet. He did not react, refusing to rise to the provocation, and moved off to find a table where the three could sit and eat.

"He doesn't want us," Porthos complained.

"Do not take it personally, my friend," Aramis grinned. "You know how unsociable he can be when he wants. This place must be a nightmare for him with so many people around all day and night; if he has found a place of quiet and reflection whilst he works, then so be it. If it helps to make him more amenable in the daylight hours, I will endure his absence."

The pair moved off to join him; if they could not be with him later during the evening, they would take advantage of his company for as long as possible. Neither of them witnessed the suppressed jubilation in Delacroix as he pondered upon what he had overheard. Athos wanted to be alone, wherever he was posted. All Delacroix had to do was find out where.

His own duties finished and clearing up quickly done, he waited outside the large hall that was one of four that had been assigned as eating rooms to the various regiments gathered within the Citadel, this one being for the use of the cavalry which included the musketeers. The three friends had been amongst the last to leave, waiting until the final minutes before the evening duty change. They bade each other a loud goodnight and parted, two heading off to their room and one in the direction of the battlements, climbing up the stone staircase to the upper level.

Drawing back into the shadows, Delacroix watched Athos carefully, frowning as he saw the other musketeer crouch and take refuge himself in the shadows on the walkway. For some reason, Athos was not looking out at the enemy but down into the yard where Delacroix was concealed. Why was he looking in the wrong direction and so still and alert?

It was easily a further forty minutes before a door opened quickly and quietly and Savatier emerged from a building and hastened across the open to the archway in the far corner. As soon as he had disappeared through it, Athos rose and, light-footed, made his way down the stairs and went in pursuit of the officer.

Intrigued, Delacroix followed as quickly as he could, unsure as to where the curving passageway between the high walls led and having lost sight of Athos. Suddenly, the path opened out in front of him and he realised he was on the quayside. Flattening himself against one wall, he dared to lean forward to search along the waterside to his left; no sign of either of the men. The wall to his right continued until meeting the sea and rocks and it was at this point that he saw Athos peering round beyond the wall at something outside the Citadel – presumably Savatier.

Elated, Delacroix made his way back to the courtyard enjoying the irony of the watcher himself being watched. He did not care what it was that Savatier was doing beyond the confines of the fortress but it might work to his advantage for the officer had to be oblivious to the fact that he was being followed and by whom. Perhaps the time would come when he could enlighten Savatier who would then be in a position to demonstrate his gratitude.

Meanwhile, Athos was completely vulnerable. He and Tréville had to be in on this together, whatever it was, for the duty roster to be so constructed that it gave the young musketeer the freedom to move around at night. Deal with Athos and it would be a hard blow against the Captain who favoured him. All he, Delacroix, had to do was to find a means to an end and hope that this subterfuge continued, thereby leaving Athos alone for it was clear that his friends had no knowledge of what was transpiring.

He re-entered the hall where he had been working earlier. The meal over, men used the space to meet and socialise, play cards and drink the watery ale that was available. Glancing round, he could not see anyone that he knew and a sense of loneliness flooded him. Whilst Athos chose to be solitary on occasions, Delacroix frequently had solitude foisted upon him; those he considered friends had not deigned to visit him whilst he was in the infirmary and his 'light duties' meant a further isolation. The injury had not brought him the resolution he had initially anticipated and that fuelled his anger.

Two men whom he recognised from the other cavalry regiment were sitting playing cards in a corner, so intent upon their game that they did not see him approach with a fixed smile upon his face. He had seen them around and heard them talking and they had not struck him as being imbued with a generous helping of intelligence. As long as they could sit a horse, aim a musket and wield a sword, what need had they for brains? It was a testament to his own brand of intellectual acuity that he did not see the flaw in his reasoning.

He had been standing by the table watching them for a while when they eventually looked up.

"May I join you in your game?" he asked, feigning warmth he did not feel.

"As long as you have money to lose," one of them joked.

"Oh I have that," he reassured them and removed some coin from a pocket, laying it on the table for them to see.

Their faces fell and one of them explained, "You're lucky. You have real coin. We can't remember the last time we were paid. If you join us, friend, and start winning, you'll have to be prepared to accept a promise of payment."

"Oh, should that happen," Delacroix said lightly as he sat down, dropped his crutch on the floor and took up the cards to shuffle them, "I think we ought to be able to come to some arrangement."


	34. Chapter 34

_**Dear all, I am not sure where the last two weeks have gone with work and rehearsals but I do apologise for not uploading another chapter until now. I wish I had the formula for making days another twelve hours longer; that might get a lot more done - or not! One other excuse is that the weekend before last I did slip down to London to see a certain Musketeer in his play and had the pleasure of meeting him afterwards! Both play and performance were excellent.**_

 _ **Meanwhile, Delacroix is up to no good! Goodness, he has few fans among you!**_

CHAPTER 34

Delacroix had a resounding victory in the card game. At first, he lost just enough hands to give his opponents a sliver of hope that they were about to be solvent with hard coinage but then he won it all back – and more. He considered them dolts, to be easily duped for they seemed oblivious of his sleight of hand. Whilst not as proficient as Porthos in the fine art of separating a man from his money, he also had an ability to recall, with startling clarity, the cards that had been laid down and it was to his undeniable advantage that he knew when to play and when to desist.

He had held back his jubilation to appear a humble victor, explaining it away as beginner's luck, and offering them the opportunity to recoup their losses the following evening. Was it greed, eagerness or downright foolishness on their part? Delacroix was not sure into which category they best fitted or whether it was a combination of the three but the next day, they were ready to play as soon as the evening meal was concluded.

And so the pattern was entrenched and the gaming combatants became familiar figures in the corner of the room over the next three nights.

Nearly four frustrating hours passed on that last one, during which the unfortunate pair cemented their catastrophic losses accrued over five days. Colleagues tried to encourage them to finish but they were determined that the tide of misfortune would, at some point, turn in their favour.

It did not.

Interest in the one-sided game waned as onlookers drifted away to their beds and the gambling trio were soon the only people left in the big room.

Eventually, Delacroix yawned, his manner still light. "Well goodnight, gentlemen. I must be away to my bed. It would not do for me to sacrifice my hard-earned winnings by losing concentration."

A look of panic passed between the other two – he did not even know their names. He had not bothered to ask and did not consider bothering now. He could easily describe them if need be and they would be sorely pressed to hide from him within the confines of the fortress should they even think of trying to renege on paying their dues.

Still they protested and begged for at least one more hand.

Delacroix' pleasant demeanour suddenly changed, his eyes narrowing and his expression cold.

"I would have my winnings, gentlemen, and make it quick."

They gaped at him like landed fish. "But we told you that we had not been paid for a while and could only offer you a promissory note," one of them, Allard, protested. He was painfully thin in stature, a man entirely comprising sharp angles which were exacerbated by heavy eyebrows in a sharp inverted 'v' shape that gave him a countenance of permanent surprise.

"That was before. Today I have changed my mind. I want my money; I do seem to have amassed a considerable sum."

"But why should you demand it now?" Allard protested, his scratchy voice rising in scale to a high-pitched squeak. "It is not as if you can go anywhere to spend it."

Delacroix huffed impatiently at his evident stupidity. "Something might happen to you tomorrow. The English, for example, might decide to storm the Citadel or let loose again with their arrows; I would not be happy if a fortuitous flight were unexpectedly to relinquish you of your debt."

"I wouldn't be too happy about it either," muttered Allard unhappily at the prospect.

Plourde, his companion, tried to adopt an air of bravado. "You can want all you like but if we haven't got it, we can't give it to you." He rose belligerently to his feet but the corpulent cavalryman, with his untrimmed beard and even more unkempt, long, mouse-coloured hair, failed to be imposing.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Delacroix warned. Snapping his fingers, Faron, Bertram and Garris moved into sight from the kitchen area where they had been awaiting the signal and spread out to adopt an intimidating stance of feet apart and arms folded across their chests.

The two unlucky card players shrank back down into their seats, the smell of fear radiating from them.

"We can't pay you yet," Plourde said again lamely.

Delacroix leaned back in his own chair, adopting a nonchalant pose and the air of a man content with himself and in command of others. "I know that. I don't want your coin."

He watched as they glanced warily at each other.

"However," he continued, "I do have a little job that you can undertake for me and I would expect you to do it without question and with minimum fuss, probably within the next two or three nights; I shall tell you exactly when. Be successful and your debt is cleared immediately and we need never speak of this again."

They were not at their ease.

"What would you have us do? Steal something?" Plourde did not like the way the conversation was progressing.

Delacroix shook his head. "I want you to teach someone a lesson for me."

"We will not commit murder!" Allard whined. "I do not care what happens to me but I will not do that."

"That is not required; a sound beating will suffice," Delacroix reassured them and saw them visibly relax until Plourde thought of a flaw in the arrangement.

"How do we know that will be the end of it? Knowledge of our involvement might give you leverage to exploit us further."

"As you were prepared to give me a promissory note, so I shall put it in writing that I will not call upon your services in the future," Delacroix lied smoothly, for a piece of paper could always be appropriated and destroyed should the need arise.

Appeased, the two men listened to instructions and the identity of their intended victim. They vaguely knew of whom Delacroix spoke but he promised to point out Athos to them the next day.

As they hurried away with hasty goodnights on their lips and lightness in their hearts that they were being given the chance to exact a punishment on another poor soul, Delacroix watched the cowards go.

"Do you think they can be trusted to do it?" Bertram asked.

"We have made it abundantly clear what will happen to them if they don't." Delacroiox shrugged.

"You really do not like this Athos, do you?" Faron commented.

Delacroix gave a sly grin. "You've noticed! I thought you didn't like him either, the way he and his 'brothers' swan around, doing what they want when they want and all with Tréville's approval. Athos is arrogant and considers himself above all of us, especially when he has a rapier in his hand. You only have to see the way he looks at everyone."

They all nodded in agreement at this wild misconception, so blinkered were they that the embers of their own petty jealousies were swiftly fanned into embittered flames by Delacroix' exaggerated anecdotes at Athos' expense. None of them was privy to the numerous dressings-down the _Inseparables_ received from Tréville for their transgressions and definitely none of them knew of the reasons behind the young Comte's seemingly aloof disposition. They only saw and interpreted actions and behaviour in their own limited yet inimitable way. Their vindictive desire for Athos to fall from grace and to dispel once and for all his apparent smugness was, to them, an aspiration worth pursuing.

…..

Both that night and the one following saw Athos delivering an unchanged report to the Captain.

"So he still sits on the rocks waiting?" Tréville asked irritably, sweat darkening the armpits of his shirt and droplets trickling from his temples.

In the last few days, the temperatures had continued to climb and there was little relief at night-time. Crowded conditions within the Citadel and a further rationing of water had dictated a reduction in exercise and movement. With nothing to occupy active minds and hands, the men had become restive and argumentative, inconsequential squabbles suddenly erupting into full scale disagreements that had men coming to blows when they would otherwise have laughed things off, shook hands and resumed their business. Tréville had lost count of the men he had been forced to discipline and unless there was an imminent break in the weather, the situation was only set to worsen, especially as the siege extended. Days were bad enough but as they stretched into weeks, the outcome was bleak and he dare not even consider the possibility of it becoming months. It was the same for all commanders within the Citadel but he knew his musketeers were men of action and, quite simply, they were bored and needed distraction to stay their more fractious behaviour.

"He does nothing else," Athos concurred.

The lieutenant's continued and strange behaviour left the two men bemused and they had lost much time speculating on what was behind the activity but without specific evidence, speculation was all it was and all that it would remain. Even Athos was beginning to feel similar stirrings to Tréville's tetchiness and wondered just how long the Captain was going to insist upon his pursuing a seemingly pointless and repetitive task.

"Damned heat!" Tréville suddenly cursed, wiping the back of his hand across his brow. "Why won't the damned weather break?"

"It threatens to in the next day or so," Athos said quietly. "If it does, we may never know what Savatier is up to because if he is awaiting a message, it will not be brought in turbulent seas."

"We can hope that if it is an instruction or a time scale for him to do something, its failure to arrive may prevent him from pursuing matters," Tréville observed.

"Or he may already know what it is that he needs to do and take matters into his own hands," Athos offered.

Tréville slammed an open palm down on the table top, not even eliciting a flinch from Athos at the sudden noise and movement. "If only we knew what he could possibly be planning!"

Jaw muscles clenching were the only sign of Athos' exasperation as he realised they were going to cover old ground yet again. For the life of him, he could not think of any new theories to add to the mix.

They had explored and exhausted suppositions appertaining to the fomenting of a Huguenot uprising on the island, for there were some of the religious group still residing amongst Ré's population. They had debated at length Savatier's possible role as spy for the English and that rather than awaiting a message, he was potentially supplying information to the enemy, but that was construed as insubstantial because of the unreliable lines of communication. What was there that Savatier could possibly provide that would be of use to the English anyway? They knew the French were firmly trapped within the Citadel and they had already seen the size of the defending force on the sands at Sablanceau.

The one exit that Savatier had found around the wall's end and across the rocks was hardly a means for mass invasion unless it was only intended that he guide a small group of élite English soldiers back within the Citadel in some disguise, ultimately affording them some opportunity to open the main gate and thereby allowing a much larger group to storm the fortress. Their own Trojan horse, no less!

Tréville thought back to the man's condemnatory views regarding the Duke of Buckingham and could not help but wonder if they were a ruse, designed to distract him into thinking that Savatier despised the Englishman, rather than being an active supporter.

The Captain sighed. "I know I have taken back responsibility of the duty list from him, but somehow I need to make additional, subtle changes in the hope that he will not become suspicious. That path to the harbour, the wall and rocks all need to be watched because it is an area of potential weakness in our defences."

"Again, Sir, I urge you to take Porthos and Aramis into your confidence; others besides me who are aware of the reasons for the concern and who can raise a more rapid alarm because they know of the intrinsic danger. Even if you increase the watch, you will need other men in readiness to respond and I do not see how that can be achieved surreptitiously."

Tréville sighed. "I will give thought to your advice, Athos." He ran his hands tiredly through his thinning hair and sat there, fingers laced behind his head. He gave a slight wince at the sudden nagging pain in his arm for he had momentarily forgotten his recent injury, having refused to wear the supporting sling for a couple of days.

"There is one other thing, Sir," the younger musketeer began. He waited until Tréville's attention settled on him again for those elusive additional theories were beginning to take shape. "Supposing Savatier poses a different kind of threat? All our suppositions have leaned towards external factors but we have not really looked to the damage he could inflict within the Citadel itself, should that be the nature of his orders."

"I'm listening," Tréville encouraged as Athos paused to organise his thoughts.

"A guard should be mounted on all the food stores. Supplies will diminish swiftly enough in the event of a long siege but we would be forced to surrender prematurely if the food were to be contaminated in any way or a fire started to destroy the lot. Likewise, an even stronger guard is needed for all the ammunition stores. A well-placed powder keg or more with slow fuses could blow this fortress to kingdom come and us within it."

Tréville frowned at the idea and his next words were imbued with a personal, heartfelt pain. "And him with it potentially. I thought I knew the man; made the recommendation myself to the King for his advancement. How could I have misjudged a man so badly? Is he so committed to the venture that he is prepared to make that sacrifice?"

"You thought you knew him and perhaps you did for a while. Who knows when he decided to turn his coat? How well did any of us know him? I doubt there is one amongst us who could ever claim to be his confidant. He has never been a sociable man, even when he stood with us in the lower ranks and if a man chooses to be close about himself, there is little anyone else can do to determine the direction of his thoughts."

Even as the words were out of his mouth, Athos saw their irony, something that was not lost on the Captain either given his wry expression. They both knew how intransigent Athos could be where the details of his personal background were concerned.

He swiftly moved on. "A sacrifice would not be necessary. He has, after all, found a means of leaving the Citadel. At a night's low tide, with his well-practiced route across the rocks, he could reach a waiting rowboat that would then safely remove him from here before we were any the wiser. Besides, another possibility is that he is here as an assassin. I suggest that the Governor's personal security is enhanced. If he were to be unexpectedly removed, it might bring an early end to the siege, although I suspect someone else would step into his position."

Athos let his words sink in and he knew, from Tréville's reaction, the moment when the officer followed his train of thought.

"As we are out of contact with the mainland, it would fall to you to assume command of the Citadel; Captain of the King's regiment would give you that seniority and Savatier would be aware of that too. Should Governor Toiras be the intended victim, I seriously propose that you also have the obvious presence of a body guard with immediate effect. It would be no matter to Savatier whether he disposed of you before or after the Governor; before would be easier for why would you suspect your lieutenant, the man who has served beside you for years?"

"Those are disquieting words," Tréville managed eventually.

"I am sorry to say so but we were looking at all the possible reasons for his actions."

"Yes and you have certainly thought of new possibilities. These are areas we have not considered before."

"And I could be wrong on all fronts," Athos tried to sound reassuring, "but we cannot afford to take any risks. I will be outside your door for the rest of the night."

"And I will review the duty list. For now, we will keep these added responsibilities within the musketeers for the fewer people that know of this, the better. I can no longer hold back the information from the Governor and will discuss it with him as soon as I can in the morning." He pulled out a time piece from his pocket. "It is nearly two. I feel that sleep will elude both of us for the rest of this night."

...

The next evening, Athos was back in his position, peering around the wall's edge to where Savatier sat in his usual position on the rocks. There was such a stillness about the man that it seemed as though he had been carved from the very rock itself, his lack of movement guaranteed not to draw attention to his location. There was very little moon visible for the cloud cover was extensive with a threatening storm and, at times, Athos was only aware of where the lieutenant was seated because he had seen him in exactly the same place on so many previous occasions.

He glanced up momentarily at the storm clouds and wondered if the break in the weather would hold off long enough until after the turn of the tide for he had not brought his cloak, not wanting to inhibit his freedom of movement, and the lack of cover at that point on the waterfront would leave him uncomfortably cold and rapidly drenched.

There was some satisfaction in the knowledge that all he had discussed with Tréville the previous night had been put in place. In the end, the Captain had insisted that Athos accompany him to the meeting with Toiras, as some of the concerns raised were his. The Governor had been disturbed by Tréville's information but approved the way things had been handled, agreed on all that was suggested and commended the two men on their foresight.

Athos had then sought out Aramis and Porthos to tell them that the Captain wanted to see them in his office. He had smiled to himself as he listened to Porthos' light grumbling about having been pulled away from his breakfast and, despite Aramis' constant badgering, he would reveal nothing as he accompanied them to their meeting with the Captain. He stood to one side, leaning languidly against a wall whilst fighting an incipient tiredness as he watched and listened to the exchanges. Tréville had done much of the talking initially, his words punctuated by the occasional soft expletive from Porthos and then relevant questions from both him and Aramis.

"We knew you were up to something specific," Porthos said to Athos, "But we never figured it'd be this."

"But you had misgivings about Savatier, didn't you?" Tréville levelled at Aramis.

The marksman nodded. "I was surprised by his disrespect to you, amongst other things, but if you are the object of some nefarious plot of his, then that would explain his attitude."

Both Porthos and Aramis had expressed a desire to accompany Athos on his night-time surveillance but he had waived aside their offers, insisting that they concentrate upon guarding the Captain. Whilst the officer had snatched a few hours of sleep, Porthos had maintained a vigilance and was then relieved by Aramis so that he could monitor the changes in duty. Athos had grabbed some rest himself before adopting his usual position on the battlements whilst he waited for Savatier to appear.

His observation was following its usual and expected pattern when a sudden noise out to sea had him stiffening in anticipation. He strained his ears and eyes as he attempted to identify what was different. With the storm brewing, the wind was definitely picking up and the sea's lethargy of several days was giving way to the imminent weather change with increasingly choppy, white-crested waters, but there was now something else that was too regular, too rhythmic. Even in its muted state, it was a sound that Athos immediately recognised – that of oars on water. A rowing boat was heading towards the shore.

Fully alert, all vestiges of remaining tiredness immediately forgotten, he watched and waited as a small boat hove into view from the darkness, a dim lantern held aloft by the person crouched in the bow. So transfixed had Athos been as he waited for the boat that he had failed to see Savatier light a similar lantern of his own, the dull beams alternately concealed and revealed for a few seconds. Another man – for so Athos presumed they both were – ceased rowing and allowed the boat to drift in and gently bump a large rock. It swung sideways and he held it in place by throwing a rope around the same rock.

The exchange was executed swiftly. The man in the bow looped the strap of a small bag over one of the oars and extended it towards Savatier who scrambled as far down the slippery rocks as he dared. He grabbed the bag, the oar was returned to its rightful user, the rope was released and the boat headed back out to sea disappearing into the darkness, all within mere minutes.

Not wanting to be caught, Athos decided to slip away. The bag must contain something of import to Savatier but he was unlikely to stop and peruse it then and Athos certainly would not be able to see the contents.

Quickly crossing the quayside, his footfalls silent, he was about to enter the walled pathway when two figures erupted from the darkness in front of him, one catching him a sickening blow on the forehead with some club that sent him stumbling back onto the quayside with a startled cry. He had forsaken his sword and pistols, preferring to leave them on his cot in favour of lightness of movement and wanting to avoid the betraying sound of metal on any surface during his surveillance but he had wits enough to reach for the main gauche that he had kept through the belt at his back. The same club – probably nothing more than a conveniently found piece of wood – came down on the forearm as he reached for his weapon, curtailing his intended move as his hand instantly went numb and useless.

A well-delivered fist in his middle doubled him over, winding him and a follow-up blow to the back of his head felled him before he knew it. On hands and knees, shaking his head in an attempt to stay conscious, he saw too late the booted foot swing at him with such ferocity that he felt the rib give way on impact and collapsed on his side.

The assault was fast, violent and well-orchestrated by the two assailants. They said nothing but grunted with their efforts as they punched, stomped and kicked repeatedly at the fallen musketeer. All Athos could do was curl into as tight a ball as possible, knees drawn up to protect his body, chin tucked into his chest and arms wrapped around his head as relentless pain exploded through him and he could not suppress the cries of agony that burst from him when each new blow found its mark.

Was this the end? The best swordsman in the regiment rendered completely helpless by manoeuvres better found in a street brawl? Would they only stop when they had killed him? He tried to roll away from one set of feet only to be abruptly stopped by another kick in the small of his back. The sound he emitted was weaker, nothing more than a desperate whimper. Oh, why had he turned down his brothers' offers of company this time? He was aware of wetness but could not identify it as it spread over and around his body. Was it from tears? Or could it be his own blood pooling beneath and around him? Heaven forbid that he had humiliatingly lost control of his body at the onslaught!

His penultimate thought was the realisation that the weather had at last broken and it was raining hard. He tried to laugh in relief that he would not be found having disgraced himself but it came out as a choked sob. Would he actually be found? He was merely feet away from deep water where his corpse could be dumped or, worse still, his body could be thrown into it whilst he still lived but was too incapacitated to help himself.

His final thought was that he heard a shout and the sound of running feet. His two attackers abruptly stopped and, as his last hold on awareness slipped away, a familiar figure crouched beside him, pulling his resisting arms from before his face.

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **Athos wonders if and when Savatier decided to 'turn his coat'. One event in the slightly later English Civil War records a Parliamentary force of several hundred besieging Corfe Castle, a Royalist stronghold. The Parliamentarians, under Colonel Bingham, turned their coats inside out as the linings were of Royalist colours, fooling the defenders into thinking they were being relieved. The walls were breached, Parliamentary troops gained entry to the keep and took the castle.**_

 _ **However, the Oxford English Dictionary has an earlier entry for 'turncoat' stemming from 1570, potentially from the actions of the then Duke of Saxony who had a coat that was blue one side and white the other. When he wanted to be thought of as in the French interest, he wore the white outside, otherwise it was blue! (Perhaps Athos would have heard/read the story in his military studies.)**_


	35. Chapter 35

_**Dear all, thank you so much for the wonderful response to Chapter 34. I had not planned to give Athos such a vicious beating; it sort of just happened! I was intrigued at all the speculation regarding the identity of the person who turned up at the end and I am giving nothing away at this moment! Thank you for all your encouragement and for those of you who 'follow' and join the number as we go along. I do find the number of people checking in to read the next instalment amazing and somewhat overwhelming. I do try to get back to all of you who leave a comment through the PM where possible.**_

 _ **I would like to answer the Guest who asked about whether my stories appear anywhere else. Thank you so much for your comment and the fact that you love both this and 'Renegade'. Unfortunately, they are not published elsewhere and I have not stopped to consider whether or not there is a download from this site. If not, perhaps it is to safeguard authorship, I really do not know. Most of these characters are not mine; I have just borrowed them and it is humbling to think you would want easier access to them. For that I thank you.**_

 _ **I have read and re-read this but if I have let errors slip through after an editing glitch and having the chapter on my portable hard drive twice, I do profusely apologise.**_

 ** _So, how is poor Athos?_**

CHAPTER 35

Tréville and Aramis were busy pouring over duty rosters in the office in an attempt to prepare several days in advance. They were quietly discussing the dilemma posed by a guard detail for the Captain. Aramis wanted to share the responsibility between himself, Porthos and Athos as they knew the reason behind the additional safety measure but Tréville had reservations, believing that if they were seen constantly in his company, it might arouse unwarranted suspicion of another kind; that of favouritism and, as the regiment's commander at a time of heightened tension and short tempers, he did not want to be seen to do anything that might fuel angst-ridden moods.

It was Aramis who responded to the rap on the door, opening it to reveal Porthos doffing his cloak and shaking it free of the worst of the water. Holding the sodden material at arm's length, he removed his hat and waved it, showering the corridor with a mockery of the rainfall that continued to fall outside.

"It's bad out there," he said unnecessarily, stepping into the room to make his report.

"At least the temperature is bearable now," Tréville countered, gesturing to the two of them to sit.

"Will Athos be much longer? He's going to be soaked because he left his cloak in our room," Aramis wondered, resuming his seat.

Porthos snorted as he sat beside his friend, "He'd be soaked with it."

"He normally reports back to me within the next hour but I would have thought the rain would curtail any waiting Savatier might be doing," Tréville explained. "I doubt that he will be much longer. In the meantime, Porthos, what have you got for me?"

"Everythin' is as you ordered. Some of the men started grumblin' about the increased duties, especially when they could see 'em from other regiments not pullin' the same responsibilities, so I told 'em straight that the you were none too pleased about their messin' about an' fightin' an' that you wanted 'em kept busy so they couldn't get into any more trouble." He grinned broadly at his creativity.

Even Tréville could not hide a smile. "Ingenious and not too far from the truth either. Hopefully, now that it is cooler, temperaments will likewise cool."

Aramis was only half listening to them as he rose again and went back to open the door. He looked both ways down the corridor before shutting it with a resigned sigh. Turning, he found the other two men watching him intently.

"I thought I heard something," he shrugged, his lie failing to conceal his unease.

"What troubles you?" Tréville asked quietly.

"Just a feeling," he answered, sinking back onto the chair. He looked at Porthos. "A bad one."

Porthos frowned. He had never had reason to doubt Aramis' gut reactions in the past and the concern felt by his brother was contagious. "He'll be here soon." His words, meant to be reassuring, instead sounded empty, hollow even, and he began to fidget.

Despite trying to turn his attention to the documents on his desk that were outlining duties for the next week and sharing them with the two men sitting in front of him, Tréville could not help but sense the nervousness radiating from the pair and began his own repeated glances towards the door, expecting to hear Athos approach at any moment. The rain that had been consistently falling for some time was now drumming harder against the window. Even if it were not the expected time for the tide to turn, Savatier must have abandoned his watch in the face of the elements and so the young musketeer, likewise, should have returned by now. His tardiness was becoming definite grounds for anxiety.

Suddenly someone was running down the corridor in their direction and they momentarily wondered if Athos was coming to raise an alarm. There was a brief rap on the woodwork but the newcomer did not wait for the invitation to enter, preferring instead to throw open the door. Breathless and excited, young Francois – a raw recruit - burst in to deliver his urgent message.

"Captain, you'd better come quickly. A musketeer has been attacked down on the quayside. The word is he's dead."

It was Tréville who leaped to his feet first, the violence of his movement toppling his chair and sending it crashing to the floor behind him.

" _Mon dieu!_ That's where Athos was." He was halfway across the room before the other two could react, a cold fear gripping each of them.

The Captain moved with a speed that belied his age and the men with him broke into a loping run along the corridor, startling those colleagues casually returning to quarters into flattening themselves against the stone walls in order to stay out of the way. They ran out through the external doorway that led into the courtyard where, through the dim light afforded by lamps and candles at un-shuttered windows, they saw a group heading from the archway in the far corner in the direction of the infirmary and they moved to intercept them.

Two men carried an all-too familiar lifeless form between them; one held him under the arms, the other at the knees whilst his head lolled forward on his chest, obscuring his face. They were followed by a grim-faced Savatier.

"Athos!" gasped Aramis as he tried to trot alongside the two men bearing the limp figure.

"Is he alive?" There was an unmistakable desperation in Porthos' voice, fearing the worst as he recalled the bleak words of the messenger.

"I don't know; I can't tell," Aramis was sounding frantic himself. He swiped at the rain that ran down his face and beard and tried to peer more closely at the injured man.

Tréville pulled him back by the arm. "Let them get him out of this deluge and you will see more easily in the light."

Aramis nodded and reluctantly stepped back for just a moment to enable the men with their precious burden to enter out of the rain. They followed, quickly shedding soaked doublets as they went, for none had stopped to grab cloaks.

Aramis swept dripping curls from his forehead and unceremoniously pushed aside the carriers as soon as they had laid Athos on a long table. He could not suppress his gasp of horror at the prone form, his breath nervously ragged as he felt the side of the neck for a pulse. Unsure, he bent low, his ear turned to Athos' mouth, waiting for the soft tickle on his cheek or the muted sound of an exhalation even as he slid a hand under the sodden leather to lay a hand upon the heart of the stricken man.

"Aramis!" Porthos needed reassurance and stepped forward.

Tréville restrained him with a light grip upon the shoulder. "Give him time," but his own eyes were filled with worry as he waited for a response.

Eventually, Aramis straightened, trying to school his anguished features. "He lives but he is so cold and wet. Help me get him out of these clothes."

Both Porthos and Tréville assisted in rolling and then sitting Athos up as they peeled the clinging, sodden clothing from him to reveal the ever increasing and alarming range of bruises that were already discolouring the whiteness of his skin.

Even as they worked, Tréville issued a string of instructions over his shoulder to the soldiers who had drifted in through the open doorway when they heard the news of the assault. It was always a source of wonder to the officer as to how quickly news could spread through a garrison but then, it had always been that way, even when he had been in the ranks himself.

"If you're coming in, make yourselves useful; otherwise go. Shut that door, it already has the temperature of an ice house in here. There are injured men besides Athos; remember them and have a care. Light a fire in the nearest hearth to here. Warm blankets before it and find some stones to heat. We need water, hot and cold, and plenty of cloths. Bring bandages, ointments, brandy and anything that may be used as splints in case we need them."

He caught an appreciative smile from Aramis. "Did I think of everything?"

"Indeed," Aramis replied. "We'll make a medic of you yet."

"I think I may have missed my calling on that one," and he frowned as he gazed down upon the limp, damp hand that lay upon the table. Raising it gently, he studied the knuckles before turning his attention to the other hand. "No marks; he didn't even have the chance to try to defend himself."

Porthos merely let out a low, angry growl as he dropped soaked clothing on the floor and took up a cloth to begin rubbing down Athos' legs to dry him. Tréville followed suit and began working on the musketeer's arms and upper body, taking care in the vicinity of bruises and abrasions that were fast emerging.

Unwilling to wait for a blanket to be warmed, Aramis snatched one from a nearby, empty cot and wrapped it round the chilled, naked form of his unconscious friend. Biting his bottom lip, he began a systematic examination, exposing and then covering a portion of Athos' body at a time.

They worked together in silence and, all the while, Athos lay frighteningly still and unresponsive. They rotated the blankets, replacing the cooling ones with those heated before the now roaring fire and had packed a wrapped, warm stone by Athos' feet before they were, in some part, rewarded by a pale pink hue that gradually returned to his deathly white skin. Whilst the cold had temporarily stayed any bleeding, cuts and abrasions began to weep anew and Aramis cleaned them as quickly and efficiently as he could.

He ran his hands gently over the rib cage and sucked in an exasperated breath as he felt bone give. "I can feel one broken rib and there are possible other fractures. I need to bind them. I am surprised there aren't more given some of the clear boot-shaped bruises on his torso."

He did not need to say anything else. Tréville slid a hand beneath Athos' shoulders and raised him up, the young musketeer's head resting against him and wet hair rapidly dampening his own shirt. He held him steady as Aramis deftly bound the ribs and, between them, they settled the unconscious man down again.

Next, Aramis felt through the tangled, wet locks to feel for any further head injuries and was relieved when he did not detect any skull depressions or more blood. Direct kicks to the head could cause irreversible or potentially fatal brain damage, but he could no longer ignore dealing with the abrasion on Athos' temple, nor the extensive, obvious lump developing beneath it. Spreading puffiness and serious bruising convinced Aramis that Athos would be hard-pressed to open the eye at all for a while. He sighed for Athos still bore the scab on the other temple left from the wound inflicted during the arrow attack by the English.

He gently stroked tendrils of hair from the bruised forehead. "You will be needing this cutting before long, my friend, else you will not see things before you," he whispered softly, sad that his words inspired no response. He desperately wanted Athos to berate him for being so presumptuous, to roll his green eyes in mock exasperation at the fuss or let some dry witticism drip from his lips, swollen and cut as they were.

But there was nothing.

It was nearly another half hour before he felt that he had concluded his work, cleaning all open cuts and abrasions, first with water and then with the spirit in an attempt to stave off infection. Once Athos was washed free of the dirt of the quayside, ointment was applied to the massive bruising that mottled his body above and below the ribs that were safely bound and supported. His eyes remained resolutely closed, however; the long, dark lashes in stark contrast to his pallid skin, for the rush of colour with renewed warmth had been short-lived. Aramis wondered at the trauma and shock his friend's body had endured. He had done all he could in the absence of a qualified surgeon and, if there were any other injuries, he would have to hope that Athos regained consciousness sooner rather than later and might be in a position to tell him. The injured man was, thankfully, warmer to the touch now and Porthos had been dispatched to their quarters to rummage amongst his belongings to find clean braies and a voluminous soft shirt.

Dressing him in warm, dry clothes once they knew the extent of his injuries was somehow a faster process than when they had begun their work and, when done, Porthos gathered up Athos easily in his arms and carried him to the nearby cot. They swathed him in blankets drawn up to his chest and settled down to wait.

It was only then that Tréville remembered Savatier, who had accompanied the men carrying Athos back from the quayside. The lieutenant had followed them into the infirmary but he had stood well back, not involving himself in the care of the stricken man. That could be easily explained by the fact that there were more than enough willing hands to help but Tréville had not noticed when he slipped away for he no longer remained in the room. What had been the lieutenant's part in the incident? The Captain could not help but harbour troubled thoughts and, in his own way, he was anxious for Athos to awaken so that he could ascertain the truth.

He briefly toyed with the idea of seeking out the lieutenant but decided that his priority was with the injured musketeer, for he feared that it was through his orders Athos had been so grievously hurt. It was his firm belief that Savatier had to be involved somehow. He looked across to where Aramis sat closest to the cot head on Athos' right so that he could quickly tend his patient if needed whilst Porthos sat next to him. The worry for their fallen brother was plainly written on their faces and he wished that he could find the appropriate words to bring them some comfort but he had his own concerns.

Unable to dispel his feelings of culpability, he sat in the silence weighing up events and struggling to draw feasible conclusions. Had Athos been witness to a development this evening? Had Savatier discovered Athos following him? Why come back with the unconscious Musketeer then? Was it to deflect his involvement in the assault or was it to ascertain whether or not the young man would survive? Had Savatier successfully inflicted all this damage himself?

It was obviously a brutal, ruthless attack and it was a miracle that Athos had not been kicked and beaten to death. The young man was fit, strong, a fighter, and yet he had been overpowered with comparative ease, apparently failing to offer any defence. Had Savatier had accomplices then? If that were so, the implications were terrifying. Without identifying the perpetrators, how could they hope to stop Savatier in whatever it was that he was planning?

Watching the still form now, he saw the steady rise and fall of the chest where Aramis had struggled earlier to find signs of life and he offered up a quick thanks heavenward that the boy still lived. He could not afford to lose any more musketeers and certainly not one of Athos' calibre or integrity.

Aramis, too, fixedly watched his brother, repeatedly casting his eyes over the visible injuries and wondering if he had missed anything. He thought that the care he had taken would suffice to ward off any infection; nothing that had broken the skin was serious enough to warrant stitches but he had no idea as to how long Athos had lain in the cold and rain. With the shock resulting from the physical mistreatment he had received, any length of exposure to the inclement weather might instigate a chill at the very least. The last thing Athos needed now was to develop a fever or, even worse, pneumonia which, in his current weakened state, could yet prove fatal.

Meanwhile, Porthos sat tensely leaning forward in his seat, wrists resting on his knees, his hands clenched in tight fists. His angry scowl spoke volumes of his turbulent thoughts and retribution would be uppermost in his mind for he had no doubt that whoever had wrought this suffering upon his brother would pay. They were confined within the Citadel and the drawn out days left him plenty of time to pursue the search for those responsible for he was determined that there was nowhere for them to hide and he did not care how long it took.

It was about four in the morning when Athos began to make signs of waking up. He lay facing Aramis when he emitted a low moan and the long fingers of his left hand clutched at the blanket.

For him, there was only pain. That was all that registered in his mind as he began to battle his way back to consciousness. Disbelieving that his entire body could be the source of such a singular agony, he tried to focus on that part of him that must have been injured. As yet, he had no recollection of what had happened and nor, in his confusion, could he decide upon where he was.

He was being made a fool by his other senses for his hurts did, in fact, appear to run through his entire frame. Shifting slightly, he attempted to find a position that was more comfortable but pain exploded simultaneously across his torso – ribs then – and his head. Possible concussion? It was likely but, for the life of him, he could not explain the multitudinous aches that made their way down his arms and legs, besides working their way across his back and shoulders.

He knew well the feeling of being run through by the point of a rapier and the forceful blow of a musket ball and all the agonies that resulted from both but this was nothing like that. It was as if he had been trampled by a horse.

There were noises, low and indistinguishable. Low groans. Then he realised they came from him. Something – someone – touched his forearm lightly and he tensed at its suddenness.

"Athos? Athos, can you hear me? Time to wake up; you have slept long enough, my friend."

He recognised the gentle voice with its calming cadence, the calloused hand that cupped his cheek. It was Aramis. He wanted to open his eyes to look upon his friend but the darkness remained and, beginning to panic at the thought of another hitherto unknown hurt, he raised his hand to his face but the movement was suddenly arrested by another hand gripping his and lowering it to the blanket, holding it there firmly.

"Your right eye is swollen shut but you should be able to open the other," Aramis assured him.

His breath hitched as he steeled himself in anticipation of serious discomfort but, gradually, he managed to half-open his good eye and winced for even the dim, flickering candle-light proved too much.

"Move that away," Aramis instructed softly, passing the offending item to a disembodied hand. Immediately, the voice of reason in Athos' head chastised him for such a ridiculous thought. Of course the hand could not be disembodied, it had to be attached somewhere to someone. He wondered if it were at all possible that he was already in the grip of delirium.

It was a strange sigh of contentment that escaped him as shadows crept in and his throbbing head gained some respite from the light. His mouth was dry and he wanted to speak but, apart from an additional moan with the effort, the words were not forthcoming; they formed in his mind easily enough but refused to be uttered. He tried running his tongue over his lips to moisten them but it seemed too large for his mouth and would not function.

"Here," Aramis said, a cup in one hand as he made to lift Athos with the other to help him drink but the movement, slight as it was, only resulted in the injured man eliciting a tormented croak, his one operational eyelid immediately squeezing shut. "Sorry, sorry," Aramis said hastily, letting him back down. "We'll just use a spoon." He was firm, knowing that, if Athos were in any fit state to maintain even a miniscule amount of stubbornness, he would not be thankful about being fed.

It was another worrying indication as to just how bad he was feeling that there was not a hint of objection. Instead, there was visible relief as Aramis began to dribble cold water between the swollen, split lips that spawned a droplet of fresh, crimson blood, no matter how careful Aramis was with the small spoon or how little Athos opened his mouth. Just the action of trying to swallow seemed to exhaust the wounded musketeer and he soon pursed his sore lips and turned his head away until Aramis gave up.

"Wha' happened?" Athos whispered at last.

"We were hoping you would be able to tell us," Tréville said, modulating his voice that, when he chose, could carry the length of a parade ground above the sound of sparring men. "Apparently you were attacked on the quayside and brought back here."

Athos frowned but those gathered at his bedside could not determine whether it was from renewed pain or endeavouring to remember the details surrounding his attack.

Standing to lean over the bed and thus ensuring that he was in Athos' very limited line of vision, Tréville tried a different approach.

"Did he do this to you, son? Was it Savatier?"

He thought for a moment that the young man was not going to answer, that he was drifting off into unconsciousness again but Athos' hand slowly reached out and weakly grabbed at the Captain's shirt front as if he feared the man would immediately charge off after the lieutenant.

"No," Athos insisted and swallowed thickly as he sought the energy to make himself understood about the fraction of memory that had suddenly resurfaced at the question. "No … not Savatier … he saved me!"


	36. Chapter 36

_**Dear all, apologies for yet another delay but I had a bit of a disaster. The weekend before last, we had a three-day, bank holiday weekend and, in between other things, I spent the time writing and editing this chapter before embarking on chapter 37. I was so proud of it and looking forward to uploading it last Tuesday morning. To this day, I do not know what I did but, at 11.00 pm on the Monday evening, I somehow overwrote Ch. 36 with 37 on my portable hard drive (I now have two copies of Ch 37!) and, according to the IT guys at work the next day, it was irretrievable! Wherever you are in the world, I am surprised you did not hear my hysteria! It has taken a week to rewrite it and I am convinced it is not of the same calibre but I trust it will give you a taste of developments! I vow not to make the same mistake again and will try hard to avoid it – whatever it was. You won't have to wait so long for chapter 37, I promise! Have done a quick grammar and spell check and trust the machine has highlighted any errors; apologies again if any do creep through.**_

CHAPTER 36

(I)

Plourde and Allard sat in a corner of the refectory, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible whilst they half-heartedly set about breaking their fast. Somehow, their part in the beating of a man held little sense of success for them, even though they knew that they had fulfilled Delacroix' wishes and were thereby freed from their significant debt to him.

When they had heard a shout and saw a figure hurrying towards them, they had immediately ceased their assault and ran back up the narrow, walled pathway that led to one of the main courtyards. They had not stopped until they had reached the relative sanctuary of their quarters, a sparsely furnished room which they shared with four other men. Pausing briefly outside the door, chests heaving as they tried vainly to control their breathing from the exertion, they listened at the door in case they could hear anything from within, a task made all the more difficult by the rain hammering on the windows that lined the corridor.

When all seemed quiet, they dared to enter the room and were immediately relieved to find it empty. The others – with whom they barely communicated – had either pulled a late duty, were still eating the evening meal or had opted to remain in the warmth of the refectory. Whatever the cause, it gave Allard and Plourde plenty of opportunity to soak their grazed knuckles and wipe their boots clean of their victim's blood. At least this way, they would not have to answer any awkward questions posed by their room-mates.

Their night was subsequently long, sleepless and lonely for they dared not whisper to each other as they lay awake in the darkness, listening instead for the sound of footsteps along the corridor and a pounding on the door that would herald the arrival of soldiers sent to apprehend them after the unexpected hero on the quayside recognised them, or saw enough of them to give a detailed description that would name them.

Now they sat at their table, miserably listening to comments in the refectory. It seemed – unfairly so - that the majority of those gathered there at that time were the King's musketeers. News of the seemingly unprovoked attack on one of their own had spread rapidly and feelings were running very high. It did not help matters that, to a man, they appeared to think well of the injured party; some were even excessive in their praise and respect for him.

Now the two men were very worried about the role they had played. Neither had thought to ask questions about why Delacroix had wanted them to 'teach a lesson' to someone; they had been too eager to be spared paying back what they owed. They had just accepted Delacroix' word and completed the task. Perhaps, if men were to be believed, Athos was an innocent in all this; that Delacroix was more the wrong-doer than the wronged in this instance.

When one musketeer reminded those present that Athos had had a very public altercation with Delacroix before they left La Rochelle, speculation became rife as to whether or not the other musketeer had somehow been behind the assault, causing Plourde to choke on the bread and cheese he was trying to digest. As he helplessly coughed and spluttered, Allard anxiously slapped him repeatedly on the back, shoved a cup of watered ale into his hand and begged him to be quiet. They need not have bothered for they did not draw attention to themselves as the sudden entry of yet another musketeer was of far greater interest to his colleagues in the room.

The big man in the ornately studded doublet called across to the wizened old soldier who ran the kitchen who, word had it, was of the musketeer regiment himself, rather than an original member of the Citadel's military complement. As the aged cook shouted back a reply that he would put a tray together, others of the King's élite men fired questions at the newcomer, whom Plourde and Allard quickly identified as one Porthos, given the number of times he was addressed.

"How is Athos, Porthos?"

"Porthos, how long before he's back on his feet?"

"Did he see who did this?"

"Was Savatier able to identify the attackers?"

"Are you going to be investigating, Porthos?"

"Do you need any help? We'll do anything you want, you only have to ask."

The man called Porthos raised his hand and his brotherhood lapsed into a deferential silence in order for him to respond to their cumulative inquiries.

"He's lucky. One broken rib and concussion, Aramis reckons, but 'e's lookin' none too pretty this mornin' with a load o' swellin' and bruisin' but, knowin' Athos, he'll be back on 'is feet faster than 'e should be."

"Wish him all the best from us," one man called out and Porthos nodded in appreciation.

"I'll do that. In the meantime, I'll be startin' to ask some questions of my own. Know this, I will find out who did this to 'im, no matter 'ow long it takes, and they'll regret it."

A loud, enthusiastic cheer erupted at his words and a terrified Allard and Plourde edged out of their seats and through the open doorway into the courtyard and the bright sun that promised another day of high temperatures; the rains of the previous evening only managing to create a temporary respite. The musketeer had been intimidating by his sheer presence, the angry scowl that darkened his features and the irrefutable vow to leave no stone unturned in his quest for the perpetrators who had brought such suffering to his brother.

Without uttering a word to each other, both Plourde and Allard were relieved that they were in possession of Delacroix' signed affirmation that they were excused payment of the debt to him by fulfilling the task of attacking his fellow musketeer. Yes it highlighted their undeniable guilt in proceedings, but it did explain how they had been manipulated; they presumed it to be written in Delacroix' own hand and it bore his name. If they were to face any punishment, they could ensure that he fell with them. Reassessing the value of the document, they wondered whether it was safe, concealed as it was in the space under the floorboards beneath Plourde's cot in their quarters.

As they slipped out of the refectory and into the bright sunshine, intent upon making themselves scarce, Faron pushed himself away from the wall beside the door where he had been lounging and moved in their direction. As if remembering where they were going, they changed course, only to find Bertram striding towards them with purpose across the courtyard. Alarmed, they veered to the right, to discover Garris intent upon intercepting them. Shepherded by the three, they found themselves guided through a low doorway into a storeroom where Delacroix sat on a barrel, waiting for them. With the door shut behind them all, Delacroix' three companions created a human barrier.

There was no escape for Plourde or Allard.

Delacroix ceased paring his nails with the point of his dagger and stared at them for some time before deigning to speak.

"The task was to give Athos a beating; you have nearly killed him. Had the Lieutenant not intervened, he might have been dead there on the waterfront; as it is, it seems that he has survived a worrying night and is expected to recover. In your enthusiasm or stupidity – I am not sure which is the more appropriate – you have potentially created a new problem, possibly drawing unwanted attention to yourselves and, by association, me."

The two cavalrymen exchanged bemused glances, not sure how the musketeer had reached such a conclusion. They were convinced that the victim himself could not identify them – they had never even greeted each other in passing so they were not convinced a link could be made between them. The more the hours passed, the more they persuaded themselves that the person who interrupted their attack had not clearly seen them.

"Athos has two close friends, Aramis and Porthos, and they will not rest until they find those responsible, especially Porthos. He is like a hound, a hunter. The slightest lead and he will be on to you and I fear you will talk far too readily." Even as Plourde and Allard began to shake their heads, eager to swear their loyalty and silence, Delacroix held up a hand to stop them.

"Our card games over recent evenings were very public, as were your heavy losses. It is common knowledge within the musketeer regiment that I do not like Athos. If our games were to suddenly end at the same time Athos is attacked, it would not even take an idiot long to reach the conclusion that the two events might be connected and that I had put you up to the assault. All of which, as we know, is the truth. We must therefore divert suspicion. This evening, we will join for another card game in the refectory after the meal is concluded. We will greet each other as friends and will smile and drink together whilst we play. To any onlookers, our mood will be light, the amassed debts immaterial and we will continue to win and lose together. Do you understand?"

He waited for an affirmative nod and then, with a menacing change that the other men had come to know so well, his features hardened. His next words carried a poorly veiled threat.

"If, of course, that does not deflect attention, then we will have to re-think the situation urgently."

(II)

Tréville had left the infirmary shortly before dawn for his temporary office, reluctant to head up to the room that had been assigned to him. He missed the convenience of a cot screened off in the corner of the room as in Paris and he immediately decided to resolve the problem once the Citadel came fully awake. Instead he snatched a couple of hours of restless sleep sitting at his desk before turning his attention to a pile of paperwork that lay strewn across the wooden surface. Although less than he amassed on a daily basis in the musketeer garrison, reports, duty rosters and constant monitoring of dwindling supplies kept him occupied even within the confines of a fortress under siege.

He yawned as he rubbed at red-rimmed, burning eyes and thought upon the events of the night before. Thankfully, Athos had not been as grievously hurt as initially believed; although it would be a long time before the image of the bloodied, limp, young man being carried across the courtyard would begin to fade from his mind. What would not disappear was the question regarding those responsible. Tréville could not dispel his sense of guilt that it was his orders to Athos that had endangered the man's life. He was still trying to work out whether or not Savatier was somehow involved but it was the surveillance upon him that had put Athos at the waterfront in the first place.

He sighed, not looking forward to the impending meeting he had initiated but knowing that it could not be avoided. Hearing the brisk, booted footfalls approaching along the corridor outside, he steeled himself and feigned interest in the inventory in his hand, even as a curt knock sounded on the door.

"Come!" he ordered.

Savatier entered, closed the door behind him and stood to attention before the desk.

"At ease," Tréville instructed but the Lieutenant hardly moved, his stance screaming an obstinate tension throughout the room.

The Captain attempted a smile. "I never had a chance to speak to you last night and was not aware that you had slipped away from the infirmary but I wanted to thank you for your action in coming to Athos' aid. I know you do not rate him very highly but thank you again for defending one of my men."

Savatier's gaze was fixed on the wall just above Tréville – anything other than actually making eye contact with his superior officer. He stiffened at the Captain's deliberate slight.

"As your second-in-command, that makes him one of my men too and equally my responsibility. No-one deserved that beating; anyone would have done the same as me if it were within their means. I did not think twice about rendering assistance and did not realise until the attackers had gone that it was a musketeer, much less Athos."

Tréville acknowledged his declaration with a nod of the head. "Did you see the attackers clearly? Was there anything that marked them out for recognition? Anything would be helpful in the apprehension of those responsible," Tréville said with hope.

"Sadly, no."

It was the response that Tréville had anticipated. "Athos cannot recall anything that helps. Aramis is unsure as yet whether this is the result of amnesia or just that Athos failed to see anything of note. We have spent much of the night speculating upon the reasons for the attack." He readied himself for any reaction on the part of the Lieutenant.

"We know that he has been argumentative of late; well, at least back in Paris and La Rochelle, but I have not been made aware of anything since we came to the island. It is possible that he had some disagreement with the men and they sought revenge, although it is odd that Aramis and Porthos knew of nothing that might have instigated this. It might have been an instance of mistaken identity and that Athos just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time but I do find that hard to accept. Perhaps there was no real provocation; it was merely the heat and the stormy weather making the men fractious and that this could have gone seriously wrong." He sighed dramatically. "Give the rest of your report then."

Savatier cleared his throat and recounted his version of events. "I was making my final rounds of the day when, from a distance, I saw two men skulking off in the direction of the quayside. I regret now that I did not follow them immediately; I might have prevented the attack at all. As it was, I went down that path between the walls that leads out onto the quayside and could hear them before I saw them. They were just beyond the exit and did not see my approach so I shouted at the top of my voice to startle them and drew my sword. When they ran, I went to their victim and found that it was Athos; he swiftly lost consciousness so I went back through the pathway to get further help."

Tréville's jaw muscles clenched in barely suppressed fury at the lies inherent in the tale. With a struggle, he schooled his features into a mask of neutrality as he rapidly sifted the information. Firstly, Porthos had been tasked by the Captain to check upon the new duties and, as he made his rounds, he never saw Savatier nor did the men he spoke to mention having seen the lieutenant, an expected response for anyone making a brief report on their watch. Of course the officer had not been seen, for he was down at the water's edge waiting for whatever! Secondly, the attackers had come from the walled pathway - that much Athos had remembered – and Savatier had come from the rocks in another direction. Had the lieutenant come from the pathway, he would have blocked the means of escape of potentially desperate men. Thirdly, Athos recalled curling into a ball to protect himself and that he was on his right side facing the water, a point substantiated by his injuries. That enabled him, just before he passed out, to see Savatier crouching in front rather than behind him.

Smiling again and endeavouring to keep his mood light, Tréville made another suggestion as he thought about dismissing the other man. "You should make time to stop by the infirmary to see Athos. In his lucid moments, he was eager to thank you himself."

(III)

Savatier was fuming as he strode away from Tréville's office and headed towards where the men should be gathering for training purposes, but he slowed his pace as it took him near the infirmary. He would not put it past Tréville to check up on him later, to ask questions of the right people to ensure that he had taken the time and trouble to go and see the injured musketeer.

As he entered from the sundrenched brightness of the courtyard into the cool, darker interior of the infirmary, he paused, allowing his sight to readjust to the gloom. It did not take him long to spot Athos lying in the second bed down on the left, but he pretended to be confused and waited for an orderly to approach. He recognised the young man as Poitier, another ineffectual musketeer in his opinion, who had depended upon a wealthy father to secure his commission from the King. He was next to useless in the field but had found a more fulfilling role in helping with basic medical needs.

"Lieutenant, may I help you?" The man was a simpering nonentity and Savatier gritted his teeth in an attempt to remain civil.

"I have come to see Athos," he explained.

Immediately, Poitier became animated, his face aglow. "Of course, Sir. Everyone is talking about how you rescued Athos last night; he might have been killed had it not been for you. I'll take you to him," and he went to lead the way.

"No," Savatier insisted. "I do not want to take you from your work. Just point to where he lies." His eyes followed to where Poitier indicated as if he had not seen the musketeer beforehand. "Neither Porthos nor Aramis sit with him?" He had to admit that it was unusual for two-thirds of the _Inseparables_ to be absent when one of their number was injured or sick in any way.

"They woke him up to monitor his concussion about an hour ago and then left when he went back to sleep; Captain's orders. They'd been here all night and needed to clean up, eat and maybe grab some rest. They said they'd be in their quarters or up on the battlements getting some fresh air if they were needed or Athos woke up in the meantime. I expect they'll be back in an hour anyway to wake him up again; they'll be pleased to know that you visited."

"It's nothing. I would do the same for any of them. The Captain and I are responsible for the welfare of the entire regiment after all; it is disturbing when one of our own is made the victim of such a brutal attack." Savatier tried to make light of the situation as he waved Poitier back to his task of sweeping the floor.

Moving to the bedside, he stood and looked down upon the sleeping musketeer. Athos lay on his back, blanket pulled up to his waist and head turned to the right, facing the door, plainly showing his painfully swollen and bruised features. His shirt was untied at the neck and, from moving in his sleep, it had fallen open so that the top of the binding round his ribs was visible and the dark, curling chest hair failed to mask the extensive bruising on his upper body. It had been, Savatier noted, an impressively thorough beating. The musketeer always tended to look very pale but now he seemed ethereal, any unblemished skin bordering on the translucent, but thankfully lacking the blue-white hue of the previous evening when he was so cold and wet.

Pulling up a chair, Savatier sat down and leaned in close.

Poitier paused in his sweeping as he saw the Lieutenant seat himself at the bedside and heard the murmur of a low voice. Athos must have re-awakened then if the officer was speaking to him. It was just unfortunate that they were too far away for Poitier to distinguish actual words.

"Pity you're asleep," Savatier said bitterly, "but perhaps Poitier's confirmation that I have been to see you will suffice with Tréville. Deny my presence and I will convince them that you were awake the whole time but your concussion has affected your memory. Do you not recall that we passed several minutes in pleasant conversation with my asking after your welfare and you expressing your undying gratitude for the risk I took in saving your hide? Were your attackers not the cowards they so obviously appeared, I could have been their next victim!

"Had I known it was you, I'd have left you there for them to finish their task for now I have a very important question. What were you doing there alone at that time of night when the weather was worsening by the minute? Do not think to insult my intelligence by saying that you were out for an evening stroll for I will discover the truth, Athos. This is not over yet."

Savatier stood and replaced the chair before bending low over the sleeping figure, hands upon the pillow either side of the tousled head, his words little more than a malicious hiss. "It is such a pity that we are not entirely alone, for how vulnerable you look lying here with your brothers conspicuous by their absence! They don't seem to making a very good job of watching your back. I vow that if I ever find out that you were on the quayside following me, I will kill you myself."

He turned on his heel and strode from the infirmary, ignoring the cheery farewell called by Poitier who paused, leaning on his broom handle, as he watched the abrupt departure.

When silence fell once more upon the infirmary, save for the rhythmic swish of the broom head across the floor, Athos dared to open his one good eye and watched the doorway thoughtfully for a moment.

Wincing, he rolled over, clung to the side of the cot and struggled to push himself into a sitting position. He breathed hard in an attempt to control the waves of nausea that assaulted him as he changed position and began to swing his legs round to place his bare feet upon the floor. With his limited vision, he searched unsuccessfully around the cot for his clothes and boots; braies and shirt alone would not really suffice for his plans but, if need be, he was ready to endure anything, for he would not remain in the infirmary a minute longer. Something in Savatier's threat had initiated a sudden flash of memory for him that had not been there before in his other waking moments – something that concerned a rowing boat and a small satchel. He had to find Porthos, Aramis or Tréville and he knew from Poitier where they would be.

"I will not deny your presence, Savatier," Athos whispered to himself. "On the contrary, I heard every word you said." He broke off, unable to avoid emitting a long, low groan. How was it that every inch of his body was bitterly complaining and his stomach was roiling uncontrollably?

The sound attracted Poitier who was before him in an instant, hands placed on his shoulders as he tried to push him back down. "Athos, you shouldn't be moving. Stay in bed and I will run for Aramis and Porthos for you."

Athos swatted the man's hands away in irritation and spoke through clenched teeth, his face contorted from his beating and discomfort. "I'll find them for myself but first, you will get my clothes and boots and help me into them. If you don't, I swear I shall throw up over your feet and your nice clean floor."

Poitier only looked at him for an instant, the injured man's expression proving beyond doubt that he meant every word. The orderly scurried away to retrieve the items of clothing, leaving Athos to wipe a weak, shaking hand over his suddenly sweating face.

He inhaled a deep, shuddering breath. "In fact, I may still do that …. Just for the sheer hell of it!"


	37. Chapter 37

_**Greetings and many thanks for the wonderful feedback - and the commiserations about lost chapters. I have recovered! Here's 37 but I can't promise another this week. The play I'm in opens Wednesday night for the rest of the week and we have technical tonight and dress tomorrow so I'm uploading this and making a hasty exit to be at the theatre for 6.00pm. We've nearly sold out for the run so that is exciting! I do wish my days were longer so that I could get more done but I hope this will suffice in the meantime! What will the boys do about Savatier and Athos' attackers? Porthos takes a lead.**_

 _ **I look forward to hearing from you re your thoughts and theories.**_

CHAPTER 37

I

Porthos took the bread and cheese he had collected from Serge and joined Aramis on the Citadel wall. The rain that had fallen the previous evening had long since died out and the sky was cloudless, the temperature beginning to climb once more. No doubt the heat was going to be oppressive by the middle of the day. For now, they were glad to be out of the other oppressive atmosphere of the infirmary and into the fresh air.

Although tired, they were relieved that the night's events had had a better conclusion than they had originally feared. They would never forget the sight of Athos' bruised and bloody body being carried into the infirmary and Aramis had not known what to expect. He could not believe that the injuries, extensive though they were, had not turned out to be even more severe. The worst they had needed to monitor was the concussion which had left Athos with a blinding, sickening headache, but he had spoken with them lucidly when awake and the pain draught prepared by Aramis had done much to alleviate the symptoms so that Athos had been able to rest. Memory lapses had not been significantly worrying and, as the night wore on, it was evident that details were re-emerging. His failure to identify his attackers was only because he had not had the opportunity to see them.

Porthos stretched to ease tense muscles and chewed on the food he had brought, enjoying the creamy texture and strong flavour of the cheese, and could not help but wonder how much longer they would enjoy such things if the siege were set to continue. They were sitting on the narrow walkway, legs outstretched and backs supported by the stone wall, as their conversation flowed easily and comfortably.

"Many of the regiment were asking after Athos when I went to get this," Porthos said, indicating the makeshift repast laid out on the ground between them. "Feelin's are runnin' high and they promised to listen out in case they picked up on anythin' that might 'elp us find out who did this to Athos."

"Anything would be useful," Aramis concurred. "We have no starting point to ..." His voice trailed off at the sight of a familiar figure making a painfully slow progress across the courtyard towards the steps that led up to where they were sitting. "What the ...?" and he pushed himself up to his feet.

Porthos followed his gaze and let out an angry expletive as he scrambled to stand up and headed for the top of the steps.

Right arm held protectively across his hurting ribs, Athos used his left hand to steady himself against the wall as he began a shaky ascent. His face was sheened with sweat as he tried to ignore the dizziness and refused to acknowledge that this was perhaps not amongst the best of his ideas. He paused every couple of steps, took deep breaths and willed himself not to vomit. It was a mark of achievement that he had left the infirmary with Poitier's boots and floor unscathed and he had no intention of that situation changing now.

Suddenly a hand appeared above him, reaching down for him and he clutched at it in a mixture of thankfulness and desperation.

"I'll get you up the stairs and sittin' down before I give you a piece o' my mind," Porthos growled.

"I appreciate ... your prioritising," Athos gasped as he was supported up the remaining steps and helped to where Aramis waited, consternation in his eyes. Athos groaned as Porthos carefully lowered him into a sitting position. They would worry about getting him back on his feet and down to solid ground later; for now, they did not relish the idea of him being overcome with giddiness and plunging from the walkway. Aramis handed him a water skin which he accepted and sipped at gingerly, hoping that he would keep it down.

"What are you doin' out of bed?" Porthos demanded, his worry manifesting itself in anger.

"I was bored," came the nonchalant reply, as if that explained everything. "Besides, you had left me in the company of groaning, injured men."

Porthos could not help himself and guffawed. "I don't think I'm wrong in pointin' out that you are a groanin', injured man yourself."

Athos allowed himself a knowing smile. "Yes, but there is one subtle difference."

"And that is?" asked Aramis, who listened to the exchange in amusement.

"At least I am a _walking,_ groaning, injured man," Athos announced proudly, but this feeling was swiftly dampened as a voice roared from the courtyard below.

"What the hell do you think you're doing up there?"

It was Tréville.

Aramis and Porthos grinned at each other before chorusing, "He was bored!"

Tréville was apoplectic. "I'll give you 'bored'! Get down here this instant."

It took far longer than an instant to negotiate the stone steps as Aramis led the descent backwards, arms outstretched to vainly support Athos if Porthos' firm hold failed for any reason. Their injured brother was definitely unsteady on his legs by the time they reached _terra firma_ and sweat poured down his face, adding a disconcerting shine to the motley purple, green and black that coloured his features.

"Have you taken leave of your senses?" Tréville tried again, his voice softer now and demonstrating some concern as they slowly, awkwardly reached him. "I went to the Infirmary to see how you were and Poitier explained that you had insisted on walking out. The poor man was beside himself when I found him. Whatever had you done to him?"

It could have been a typical Athos expression of feigned innocence - the sideways glance as if he were searching his memory for a possible recent infraction, the raised eyebrows in disbelief that anyone could accuse him of anything and the slight shrug of the shoulders that seemed to question: "Who, me?" Under normal circumstances, they would have recognised the deflection tactics but the bruising and swelling only served to make his expression sinister, the slight smile nothing more than a twisted grimace that bordered on the macabre.

Tréville decided not to pursue it. "No matter. Bring him to my office before he falls flat on his face. We will talk there."

The Captain had been in the coolness of his office for several minutes, moving paperwork and positioning a chair in front of his desk before the trio eventually arrived and it was clear to see that Athos was seriously struggling, for it was only the support of the other two that kept him on his feet. They eased him into the vacant chair as his eye screwed shut against the pain.

"You've got a cot in here," Aramis said to the Captain, spotting the carefully made-up addition to the room's furniture and trying to ease the underlying tension that pervaded them all. It had come as an uncomfortable jolt to the three of them that Athos had absented himself from the infirmary when it was clear he could barely stand; each was erroneously blaming himself for some perceived negligence on their part.

"Recent acquisition within the last hour," Tréville answered. "To remind me of the comforts of home," he added as if feeling the necessity of justifying his order.

Porthos chuckled as he thought back to the Paris office and the corner space where Tréville took his rest, "You're a man easily pleased if that's all it takes."

Tréville shrugged. "I cannot get used to traipsing up and downstairs to get some sleep; it seems like a waste of time. Now, I can snatch rest when I can."

"As long as it is not always snatched," Aram admonished as he squatted in front of Athos, one hand on his shoulder to keep him upright in the chair and moderating his tone. "What were you thinking of, my friend, walking out of the infirmary like that? You are not well enough to be wandering, you must know that."

Athos nodded and immediately regretted it as pain lanced through his head. "I remembered something and needed to tell you all."

"And you couldn't have asked Poitier to come and get us? He knew where we would be," Porthos said from behind Aramis.

"It came back to me when I had a visit from Savatier," Athos explained, his voice low and catching as if from lack of use.

Tréville stood to one side, arms folded as he inclined his head approvingly. "So he acted upon my suggestion to come and visit you."

Athos managed to raise his head enough for his one eye to squint in the Captain's direction. "But I do not suppose that you suggested he threaten to kill me."

The shocked gasps gave him a momentary satisfaction and he winced as the anticipated barrage of questions ensued. He waited until they had settled themselves: Tréville in his seat behind the desk, Aramis perched on the desk edge and Porthos leaning against the nearby wall. Gradually he told them all of what he had managed to recall of the previous evening when he was watching the lieutenant; even as he spoke and prompted by the others, details came back with greater clarity and he described the arrival of the rowing boat, its two occupants and the slick passing over of the small satchel, even as the weather conditions deteriorated further. He re-affirmed the positions of his attackers and how he lay when Savatier crouched over him, thus confirming beyond doubt the lies Savatier had given his commander earlier that morning. He then gave a full account of Savatier's visit to the infirmary and his deplorable words when he wrongly assumed that Athos was asleep.

"That was incredibly stupid of 'im," Porthos said.

"Or incredibly arrogant," Tréville corrected, "and a view like that is bound to lead a man into making mistakes. He must believe himself untouchable in whatever he is planning."

"So what are we doin' about it? Breakin' into his room to search for the satchel and its contents?" Porthos asked, eager as ever to turn words into actions.

Tréville shook his head, "I do not want to give him any increased idea that we suspect him." He looked meaningfully at the three of them. "As far as he knows - and we will take care to reinforce that in any conversation with him - Athos has no recollection whatsoever of the events of the last evening. It's gone. For now we increase the surveillance on him and you two will take over that responsibility."

Porthos and Aramis glanced towards each other and it was Aramis who spoke up. "If he thought he was being watched by Athos, won't he expect us to take up that mantle?"

"He will be alert now anyway but I think he will expect you to be more interested in seeking the identity of Athos' attackers," Tréville went on, planning a strategy even as he spoke. "So, one of you will start investigating whilst the other keeps an eye on him and then you swap, with occasional visits to check on Athos. It is clear that you believed him well enough to leave alone in the infirmary earlier."

"Don't know about Athos but all this watchin' is givin' me a headache," Porthos complained. He looked at his injured friend. "Nothin's changed in Delacroix watchin' you an' now we know for certain Savatier is watchin' you too." He turned to the others. "So we need to watch Athos with all that's 'appened to make sure he stays safe. We've got men watching the Governor and we're watchin' the Captain in case Savatier is plottin' an assassination attempt. The English are watchin' us and we're watchin' them." He finished with a groan.

Tréville could not hide his amusement even though there was an undeniably serious undertone to Porthos' comment. "A succinct summary but a siege situation dictates a lot of waiting and watching."

"Porthos hates inaction and having to be too patient," Aramis reminded the officer.

"I know it's annoying but it is unavoidable," Tréville acknowledged.

"And what am I doing whilst all this watching is happening?" Athos interjected.

"Absolutely nothing until you have totally recovered from this attack," Tréville ordered, already vacating his seat and moving round the desk as he eyed Athos, who sat, head bent and hands clutching at the sides of the chair to keep himself upright. "I knew getting a cot in here would be useful."

He leaned down and took hold of Athos under one arm, indicating that Porthos should support him on the other side.

"You don't want us to take 'im back to the infirmary?" Porthos queried as he helped ease Athos to his feet. As gentle as he was, Athos still moaned softly at the movement

"I don't think that's very sensible, do you? He's not going to be able to walk back there. Besides, we can't trust him to stay put whilst you're about your business. I've got plenty of paperwork to do and I can keep an eye on him whilst I work; that way, we all know where he is for the next few hours at least."

Athos tried to object at the notion of taking up the Captain's cot but he could not deny the relief as they lowered him to sit on its edge. Tréville held him by the shoulders as he helped him sink back onto the pillow whilst Porthos swung his legs up and onto the cot before pulling off the boots. Aramis had snatched up the folded blanket and now shook it open, draping it over his friend.

"I will be back shortly; I'm going to get you a draught to help with the pain as it's a while now since you last had some and your decision to get some unexpected exercise won't have helped the recovery process," Aramis offered and was gone.

Athos, utterly exhausted at the energy he had expended and riding waves of pain and discomfort, lay there with eyes closed, already drifting in and out of awareness, vaguely conscious of the muted voices of Tréville and Porthos but unable to grasp the content of their exchange. They were probably discussing him anyway so it was better that he did not know. It seemed no time at all before Aramis was back at his side, a hand at the back of his neck to raise his head and placing a cup to his lips. He frowned at the bitter taste but obligingly drank down the draught in several mouthfuls. A relieved sigh escaped him as he was laid down again and he gave in to the welcoming darkness that swept over him with an unnatural speed.

"That wasn't just a pain killer, was it?" Tréville asked as the three stood looking down at the sleeping form.

"I might have added a little something to relax him and help him rest," Aramis grinned.

"Somethin' to knock 'im out, more like; makin' sure he doesn't get any fancy ideas to go wanderin' again," Porthos added.

"He wouldn't get that chance," Tréville assured him. "Not with me sitting here."

"If we're pursuin' our own tasks, who's on duty outside?" Porthos wanted to know.

"Thibaut and Hubert are in position outside the door. They'd just come on duty when I was heading back with the draught," Aramis assured him.

"Seems like we are all set then," Tréville said, rubbing his hands together. "I suggest we get on."

II

Porthos did not waste time in beginning his investigation and there was certainly nothing subtle about his inquiries. He was anticipating that if word spread rapidly that he was seeking those responsible for attacking Athos, others might be prepared to share potential ideas, suspicions or anything more substantial and he was intent upon making the perpetrators squirm with concern at his thoroughness. The confined conditions as a result of the siege and the knowledge of his undoubted determination to identify them would perhaps push them into making a fundamental mistake as they sought to conceal their culpability. The majority of musketeers were eager to lend their support and conversations were rife but, by late afternoon, he was no further forward and fighting to control his frustration.

Pausing by the well to slake his thirst in the energy-sapping heat, he cast a cursory glance around the courtyard whilst savouring the refreshing coolness of the clear water. Musketeers were lounging in the limited shade afforded by the eastern wall and the foolish few who still attempted to complete some sort of sword drill were not seriously working, their thrusts and parries bordering on the feeble but there was minimal risk of them hurting each other as their moves were so slow, little more than a walking pace.

It was now in the early days of August and the siege was almost a month old. It was some time since the two regiments had been combined to form the cavalry but apart from their united fighting front during the day's defeat at Sablanceau, they had not really mixed, preferring to keep the company of those they knew well. Some of the cavalrymen had progressed to acknowledging each other with a nod and a restricted greeting in the refectory but there was an invisible line demarcating the two bodies of men, even though Tréville now commanded them. They most certainly did not socialise with the infantry and pikemen, housed as they were in other sections of the Citadel.

It therefore struck Porthos as curious when he noticed two men from the other regiment who seemed interested in him. Their attention was most definitely focused on him because, when he inadvertently caught their eye, their behaviour was most strange as they instantly looked away; one picked at the brickwork and the other became fixated at a loose thread on his unbuttoned doublet.

It was then, fortuitously, that Moreau joined him and asked him how his investigation was developing.

"Not very well," he answered, not looking at Moreau but still staring at the two cavalrymen who would try to surreptitiously glance his way and then quickly look anywhere else when they found his gaze still upon them. "Moreau, any idea as to who those two are over in the corner?" He turned to face the musketeer as if he had lost all interest in the other men.

Moreau glanced fleetingly in their direction and then stood with his back to them as though he realised something important might be about to unfold.

"I don't know them by name but they look like the two who have been playing cards with Delacroix over the past few evenings. Word is they have lost heavily to him every time and are now significantly in debt. Apparently the cavalry hasn't been paid for some time – not that money is an issue at present with us being stuck in here – but still they come back for more. My guess is they have some naive hope they will start winning so they won't owe so much when it comes to him demanding payment."

"Is he cheatin'?" Porthos wondered.

"I don't know," Moreau admitted. "I watched a few hands a couple of nights ago. I didn't see anything untoward but you never can tell with Delacroix."

Porthos nodded in agreement; there were few within the regiment who had any liking or trust for the man. "Every night you say?"

"For about the past five days on the trot and each session lasts for quite some time. You know how soldiers talk; word has it that they're left playing in the refectory after everyone else has turned in for the night."

"Some serious play then?" Porthos commented, his mind already racing ahead.

"Yeah, until last night."

The throwaway statement piqued Porthos' interest and Moreau suddenly had his undivided attention. "What did you say?"

"Well they started playing as usual but then made an early finish."

"How early?"

Moreau thought for a moment. "I don't know exactly because a group of us were talking and drinking that awful watered ale but it must have been about ten when I realised they were no longer playing and that they'd all left the refectory."

The attack on Athos had been less than an hour later so where had the two men gone after their card game? Did they have some other alibi or had they headed down to the quayside with some nefarious intention? They were heavily in debt to Delacroix who did not like Athos and who had been very clearly instructed by Tréville to leave him alone. Perhaps he had done just that and found another way to exact retribution for the humiliating episode at La Rochelle. Porthos had to hand it to Delacroix, he was a very patient man who bore very long grudges! The more he thought about what he had heard, the more Porthos thought he had reached the right conclusion.

Porthos' next move was immediately apparent. "It's a while since I've had a good game of cards. Perhaps I'll see if I can join our two cavalrymen tonight!"


	38. Chapter 38

**_Dear all,_**

 ** _Many thanks for your 'break a leg' well wishes. Nervous for the dress tonight and will be worse tomorrow for opening night. It's at times like this I ask myself why I do such things! However, this chapter fell easily into place 'under pressure' and so I am able to share it with you much sooner rather than later - never expected it to happen and I know it's a little shorter than recent chapters. Thank you also for the comments yesterday and today. Reviews may not be showing up on the site again but I am getting them through emails. Any errors are my carelessness - apologies in advance._**

 ** _For those of you wanting to know a bit more about Porthos 'the detective', he is the hero in this one!_**

CHAPTER 38

I

It was the knock on the door that first began to drag Athos back to awareness. There followed the sound of soft footsteps, the door being opened and muted voices before it was closed again and the footsteps re-crossed the room. The scraping of chair-legs on the stone floor indicated that the room's other occupant had sat down and then a document was unfolded. A pause was followed by a low curse.

With immense effort, Athos opened his eye and saw Tréville sitting at a desk reading the missive and rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, either to ease the tense knots there or in a gesture of exasperation.

A fleeting question crossed the semi-awake musketeer's mind as to why the Captain should be sitting working there in Athos' room when he realised that it was not set out as in his temporary quarters. His next notion, that he was still in the infirmary, was equally quickly dismissed as he realised that he was in Tréville's office and on a cot, no less. Suddenly embarrassed at the situation, he struggled to sit up, his movement and low groan alerting Tréville to his wakefulness. The Captain immediately arose to fill a cup with water from a pitcher and moved to his side.

"How long have I been asleep?" Athos asked, taking the proffered cup and sipping at its refreshing contents; his embarrassment enhanced as Tréville plumped up the pillow behind him and eased him back against it.

"Over six hours," Tréville answered with a wry grin.

Athos frowned in concentration. "Aramis," he decided correctly.

Tréville nodded; there was no use denying it. "He wanted to make sure you got a beneficial rest. You certainly look and sound better for it. How do you feel?"

"Sore but otherwise not too bad," Athos admitted grudgingly. He looked past the Captain to the document left on the desk. "Bad news?" he asked and, when Treville hesitated, he added, "Sorry, none of my business."

"No, there's nothing secret about it at all," Tréville reassured him and, pulling a chair to the side of the cot, he retrieved the paper from the desk top, sat down and handed it to Athos to read. The act, an obvious ruse to occupy the injured musketeer, was not lost on either of them; it was also an undeniable demonstration of the strengthening trust between them and that Tréville welcomed the younger man's insight and contributions on matters.

Athos scrutinised it carefully. "So the English are definitely trying to improve their barricade of the island?"

"Yes," Tréville acknowledged. "Their attempt has only been half-hearted up until now. I expect they thought the sheer numbers of their vessels would be intimidating enough but some supplies have continued to slip through periodically, although none would last us for weeks. Now, it seems, they are intent upon closing the harbour entrance and have been hard at it all day. They have devised a floating stockade of masts and timbers chained together and are moving them into position as we speak. I anticipate that they will have completed their task by mid-morning tomorrow at the very latest."

"Can we not fire on them to halt their endeavour?" Athos wanted to know.

Tréville smiled, "We did try but you have heard nothing! We are at enough distance from the water front, intervening walls have deadened sound and you have been asleep so you have not heard the gunfire. However, onshore winds have also prevailed against us when we did send several volleys of musket fire in their direction but without success; they are beyond reach."

"What they are doing hardly seems that secure a method," Athos reassured him. "If we continue getting rain and storms every few days as we are at present, they will not last long."

"We will have to wait and see. I do have some other information that might entertain you though." It was painfully obvious that Tréville, who normally adopted such a serious countenance, was struggling to maintain that façade as the corners of his mouth twitched.

Athos raised an eyebrow inquisitively; the Captain was enthrallingly amused by what he had to impart.

"The English have begun a second line of trenches closer to the wall."

"But is that not bad news?" Athos asked, for a closer line meant the reach of musket fire at least.

"Perhaps not," Tréville was enjoying himself as he spun out his tale. "If you were digging a trench, where would you put the excavated earth to fortify your own defences?"

"Ahead of the trench. Why?" He was beginning to see where the question might be taking him but he stared disbelievingly at Tréville for the man's response.

"That is where you and I would place it but the English have adopted an alternative method. They are piling it behind the trench!"

"So that we can fire down upon them without a barrier from our battlements," Athos noted.

Tréville nodded as both men began to laugh at such a critical error of judgement. The hilarity caused Athos to clutch at his aching ribs.

"That is basic common sense!" Athos exclaimed as he regained control of himself. "You do not need experience of battle strategy to realise that. When will the English realise that what they are doing is wrong? Who has Buckingham employed as his siege engineer? His gardener?"

"Their ineptitude is certainly interesting," Tréville agreed, refilling the cup with water. "I can now understand why the English Duke suffered such a resounding defeat at Cadiz."

The two men fell into an easy, companionable silence as Athos drank his fill, the water soothing to his parched throat. Whatever it was that Aramis had added to the draught, it now left him incredibly thirsty.

"Have you seen any more of Savatier since this morning?" Athos eventually asked.

"Once," Tréville nodded, "but I went and found him. I did not think it advisable for him to walk in here and see you asleep. Hubert remained outside the door and Thibaut followed me."

"Thanks," Athos said. "If he pays me a return visit though, he might wonder where I am."

Tréville's look was scathing. "I doubt he'll darken the infirmary doorway again. In the remote chance that he did, the supposition would be that you returned to your quarters. He has no clear evidence as yet that proves you were following him so he would be foolish to take any further action against you."

Athos sighed. "I hope so. Has he said anything about all the increased security details, not least for you?"

"No and I am not sure what to make of it. It could be that neither the Governor nor I are his targets after all but, as you suggested, it is better to exercise caution, particularly in protecting supplies. He could just be accepting it for I think about his possible plans all the time but cannot come up with anything else it might be, other than primarily within these walls. We do not even know whether or not last night's message was to spur him into action at last or to abort completely whatever mission he has."

Athos contemplated this news. "Should he not just be challenged?"

"He would deny it or produce some plausible explanation. Whatever that message was last night, I would not hold my breath on the expectation of it still being in existence. No, we still have no actual proof until he makes his move and for that we need to be ready."

II

By the time Porthos sat down to his evening meal, he was a much happier man with a formidable plan. He eyed Aramis over his raised spoon and blew on the hot stew to cool it as his friend slid onto the bench on the other side of the table.

"How's he doin'?" he asked, referring to Athos whom he had helped move back to their quarters as it was deemed unnecessary if he remained any longer in the Captain's office. Very few had known of his whereabouts during the day and, had he stayed there, it might have given rise to some unhelpful questions regarding his absence. Aramis had stayed to help him settle and provide some food, delighted that Athos was complaining now of a prodigious hunger to accompany the on-going thirst, for which Aramis had apologised at length. Porthos had wanted to be in the refectory the moment Serge had started to serve dinner and had borne the brunt of the jibes about his appetite and constantly seeking food in good nature for he knew that he had an ulterior motive. He wanted to be there in advance of the cavalrymen. Further careful questions had elicited their names from a reliable source and he now knew that they were called Allard and Plourde. He had positioned himself carefully at a table that granted him an unobstructed view of the main entrance and he ate slowly, eyes constantly on those who came and went as he waited for a specific pair to enter.

Aramis had broken off bread and mopped at the dark juices on his plate when he saw Porthos stiffen, his eyes fixed in a direction over Aramis' left shoulder.

The big musketeer appeared to wipe at his mouth with the back of his hand but his intention was to muffle his tones from the people sitting nearby.

"They just walked in," he murmured. "They're just about to be served by Serge: thin one an' the fat one."

Aramis let his eyes rove the room as if curious as to all who were gathered there until his gaze alighted upon the two concerned. "What are you going to do now?"

Porthos set down his spoon, rose to his feet and pulled on the front of his doublet, not that it needed any rearranging. "I'm goin' to invite myself to a card game," and before Aramis could add anything, the big musketeer was threading his way between the busy tables to where Plourde and Allard had sat, as per usual, in the farthest corner of the room.

They were too intent upon their food to notice his approach until it was too late but their worried expressions were unmistakable. Porthos pretended not to notice, grinned broadly and pulled up a chair from a different table. Straddling it, he leaned his arms along the back and eyed them both genially.

"Evenin', boys," he greeted, giving them just long enough to stutter some kind of nervous response. He suspected that they already knew who he was, that he was a close friend of the beaten musketeer and that he was intent upon finding out those responsible for he had made sure during the day that word spread to that fact.

What he and Aramis both missed was Garris abandoning his food and slipping out into the evening air.

"I'm reliably informed that you two like a game of cards," he announced, pulling a pack from his pocket and beginning to shuffle them.

Plourde licked at the sweat that had already formed on his upper lip. "Whoever told you that?"

Porthos shrugged, not in the least bit bothered by the lie he was about to tell. "Delacroix, of course. 'Im bein' a fellow musketeer an' all that; was kind of natural that we should fall to talkin'. Claimed 'e 'ad a run o' luck an' that you two were owin' 'im a tidy sum."

He waited as the two exchanged alarmed looks but he never let his smile slip. Turning his head a little, he saw Aramis watching and gave a slight dip of the head to reassure the other man that all was well for now.

"I'm a bit short myself," he said, beginning to deal the cards, "so I fancied seein' if it really was as easy as 'e said to part you from your money."

"We told him what we're telling you," Allard pleaded. "We have no money; we've not been paid for a while."

"I understand that, course I do." He indicated with a nod that they should pick up their cards. They were going to play and he would brook no nonsense.

Plourde just looked at the dealt hand that lay on the table before him and pushed aside his cooling plate of food as he wanted to be anywhere but sitting there at that moment.

"If we lose, we cannot pay you," he persisted.

"That's clear enough," Porthos' grin widened. "We've all ended up owin' someone somethin' after a game." He picked up his own cards and studied the hand he had given himself.

The other two hesitated and then, either temptation proving too much or their fear of the big musketeer too compelling, they picked up their cards as well.

"So long as you understand," Allard tried again.

"Of course," Porthos reassured him and waited as they each laid a card in turn. He did not even look at them as he added, "Besides, there are plenty of other ways of payin' a debt, aren't there?"

In total panic, Allard leaped to his feet, the backward motion of his chair arrested by the arrival of Aramis, who placed a firm hand on his shoulder and pressed him back down onto his seat.

"Leaving the game so soon?" Aramis quipped. "I thought you and my friend here had just got started."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Plourde tried to bluff, beads of perspiration now trickling down the side of his face as he swallowed thickly.

"Oh but I think you do," hissed Porthos, deliberately keeping his voice low. Plourde made the mistake of trying to move but the musketeer's hand shot out, his powerful grip on the arm of the cavalryman keeping him firmly fixed at the table. "Let's stop worryin' about playin' for money and which one of us can pay and who can't. Let's raise the stakes. Let's play for the truth."

Plourde and Allard were squirming in their seats, glancing around as if searching to see whether or not anyone could come to their assistance. It was at that point they realised that all the surrounding tables were occupied by musketeers eating their evening meal; none was taking any particular notice of what was unfolding in their corner of the room but an underlying tension was in the air. A few unsuspecting cavalrymen from their regiment were chatting amiably on the far side of the room, oblivious to their colleagues' plight. Porthos could not help but wonder if Allard and Ploured were the tolerated outsiders, much like Delacroix and his few 'friends' were within the musketeers.

"Don't even think about raisin' an alarm," Porthos warned, convinced by their behaviour that they were guilty of attacking Athos. He had never expected it to be this easy; all he needed now was detail. "There are more musketeers in 'ere than from your lot. If a fight broke out; you'd lose – simple. Not one of 'em is 'appy about what's 'appened to Athos and they know we're askin' questions, lots o' questions, but what they don't know yet is 'ow far you're implicated. If I thought you were 'oldin' out on me, I'd only 'ave to give the word an' they'd be givin' out their own punishment."

As Porthos sat closest to Plourde, so now Aramis hooked the leg of a nearby chair with his foot and pulled it over to sit down next to Allard. The friendly smiles ceased to exist.

"Now, here's 'ow the game goes," Porthos continued. "You lose the 'and an' you answer one o' my questions. Truthfully, you understand?"

The pair nodded in synchronisation.

"And if you lose?" Allard was not sure that he really wanted to know. "What do we win then?"

Porthos flashed them a broad grin that lacked any genuine mirth. "That's easy. I let you know bit by bit what I'm goin' to do to you."

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **The masts and timbers chained together comprised the first of three attempts by the English to improve the blockade.**_

 _ **Having dug the first line of trenches too far away to be of use, the English tried again but with the siege engineer having drowned on the day of the landing, the new chief engineer was merely an ordinary labourer pressed into service and so the fortification was built on the wrong side of the trenches at first.**_

 _ **Unbeknownst to Athos, his question was not an idle jest. Buckingham did, in fact, employ his gardener after that to design the earthworks as the English tried a third time to dig some useful trenches! (It begs the question WHY was the gardener there in the first place? I can't believe Buckingham sent to England for him to draw some diagrams and then send them back! Haven't actually found the answer to that one yet.)**_


	39. Chapter 39

_**Dear all,**_

 _ **The play was a resounding success and played to excellent houses. Thank you to all who inquired. I had such fun doing it (despite the nerves). Have spent the past few days catching up on sleep and the mountain of work set aside for the duration of the run and then shot down to London after work on Monday to see Lily James ('War and Peace') and Richard Madden ('Game of Thrones') in 'Romeo and Juliet'. Got masses of reading and reviewing to catch up on over the next few days and have at last finished the next chapter. Done in a hurry so please excuse any carelessness and missed errors. This chapter has taken an unexpected turn. It wasn't in my original plan and it has taken over so I shall be interested to hear your thoughts. Thanks for all the lovely reviews previously.**_

CHAPTER 39 I

Allard and Plourde were utterly useless when it came to playing cards and Porthos was left wondering whether they were truly inept at that particular form of gambling or they were merely intimidated by his presence and what he demanded of them. Whatever the reason, they lost every hand and responded to his questions with almost eager resignation to unburden their souls to someone. It was a situation that might have been aided by the fact that Aramis sat by, ever silent and watchful, playing almost absent-mindedly with his dagger, an action which was threatening in its own way.

It took less than half an hour for Porthos to find out all he wanted to know and only a few minutes more before he and Aramis flanked the cavalrymen as they took him to their quarters to retrieve the damning evidence that would prove Delacroix' role in initiating the attack on Athos. Porthos' heart was light as he envisaged an end at last to the bullying of his friend; that Delacroix' unreasonable, unwarranted and unfathomable hatred of Athos would become a thing of the past and that he would receive his just desserts – strong punitive measures at the very least and probably, once they were able to leave the confines of the Citadel, expulsion from the brotherhood of musketeers.

The jealous, vindictive individual had sealed his own fate by putting in writing that he absolved the two cavalrymen of their gambling debt on the understanding that they target and severely beat another musketeer, one Athos, and that when the task was successfully completed, he would have no other call on their services. Allard and Plourde had received the document, read its contents and concealed it in their room under a floorboard and now the quartet were on their way to collect it, whereupon Porthos and Aramis would deliver it to Tréville without delay. The two cavalrymen accepted that they were in trouble and would, undoubtedly, face a terrible sanction but they had made their confession, felt strangely happier and were prepared to repeat their tale to the musketeer Captain. It would be a great relief to hand over the document.

Except that it was not there!

Aramis and Porthos stood blocking the doorway, arms folded and faces inscrutable masks as Plourde and Allard pulled up first one floorboard and then another before turning their attention to their bedding and personal effects and those of the people who also shared the room.

Porthos was all set to dismiss the very existence of the document and grumbled deep in his throat, his face a menacing scowl as he contemplated dire consequences for the pair when Aramis spoke.

"They are telling the truth; look at the fear in their expressions, the panic in their search. They have been outmanoeuvred by Delacroix, my friend, and so have we. There is no proof that he was behind the attack on Athos."

"They could still tell Tréville; we can 'ope their word would stand for somethin'," Porthos objected.

Aramis shook his head. "It is only their word against that of Delacroix, especially when whatever he claimed would be backed up by Faron, Bertram and Garris. The cavalrymen would be outnumbered two to one."

"But Delacroix has a motive and they don't. Besides, plenty saw them lose heavily at cards."

"Admittedly, but that doesn't mean that Delacroix would order an attack on another person as payment. We have to face it; the evidence has gone," Aramis sighed. He glanced at Plourde and Allard, two clearly broken men who were terrified about what the musketeers might do next. "Porthos and I will go and see the Captain and tell him of what has happened. You had better remain here for he's likely to send for you and, in the meantime, you'd better tidy up this chaos before you upset anyone else."

It was such a simple instruction and well-intentioned by those who spoke it and received in a similar vein by those who heard it, but it was an instruction that was to set in motion a downward spiral of events that would wreak havoc in the cavalry section within the Citadel, pitting man against man in a fearful furore that saw Tréville and Toiras struggling to maintain control over the next forty-eight hours.

And it all began with Aramis' fateful words, "Remain here."

Shortly after nine in the evening, Aramis and Porthos went to see Tréville to explain what had transpired, including the devastating news of the disappearance of the precious evidence that would serve to damn Delacroix once and for all.

At half past the hour, as they had expected, the two musketeers were sent back to the cavalrymen to escort them to the Captain and that was where the trouble began. Little had been done to improve the state of the room from where the cavalrymen had ransacked it in their search. It certainly was no worse but the men were conspicuous by their absence.

Neither Aramis nor Porthos saw any need for immediate concern; they were merely antagonised by the inability of the pair to do as advised and remain in their quarters. Wondering if they had gone to seek Delacroix in a moment of guilty conscience to warn the musketeer or to engage in a further game of cards, Porthos led the way back to the refectory, Aramis trailing in his wake as his ever-watchful eyes scanned the courtyard's shadows for any sign of movement.

The refectory, though, was nearly empty and none of those whom they sought wee in evidence.

"We'd better go and tell Tréville," Porthos said bleakly. "He's goin' to want to know what's keepin' us."

Aramis turned his collar up and shuddered. The wind was building again and fine droplets of rain were in the air. It seemed that another storm was imminent, the weather far from working in their favour at present. Days of burning, relentless sun with soaring temperatures ensured that exertion left them breathless, throats parched and eyes stinging. Storm clouds would pile up, usually as night fell so that the dark sky was rent asunder by frightening, forked lightning and ear-splitting thunderclaps before the heavens opened and an unforgiving deluge drenched in seconds any who dared to leave the sanctuary of a building. The only comfort to be found was the knowledge that it must have been harder for the English, housed as they were in a temporary city of tents. Work on the trenches would be sporadic as the diggers waited for the pooled, muddy water to drain away before they resumed their work and had to hope that they could do enough before the soil baked hard again.

Moodily, the two brothers-in-arms took their news to the Captain, whose self-control was laudable; only the twitching facial muscles suggested that he was anything but calm.

He ordered them to round up a dozen of their colleagues and return to him as swiftly and discreetly as possible.

It was a testament to how well they had been trained that the first twelve men the pair encountered headed to the Captain's office a little intrigued but without question and they listened solemnly as Tréville outlined a quick but necessary search of the cavalry section of the Citadel. He broke the area down into more manageable parts and, before handing over to Aramis to describe Plourde and Allard, he urged them to return with all haste.

Dismissed at eleven o'clock, they were all back within the hour, having failed to find anyone answering either description. At midnight, they ventured forth again to repeat their search in the event that the two men had returned to the cavalry quarters, having innocently been further afield, or in case they had intentionally concealed themselves in the vain hope that the search had ended.

In the early hours of the morning, Tréville had to concede that the men were nowhere to be found within the expected sections of the Citadel. He abandoned the search and dismissed his musketeers, insisting that they retire for the night before they reconvened to continue their task in a wider area when it was daylight. In the meantime, the situation was not to be discussed beyond the immediate group of those involved in the hunt and he saw no reason to raise an alarm for the cavalrymen had to be somewhere. The weather was rapidly worsening, rain lashing the stonework of the fortress and the wind howling through the cracks and crevices; no-one with any sense would be out and about in the deteriorating conditions. He also had to make the difficult decision to request an unscheduled meeting with the Governor before any more time elapsed in order to apprise him of events.

They sat together in the Governor's office. The man had quickly roused from his sleep and dragged on a pair of breeches and loose fitting shirt to meet with the Captain and they spent a troubled half hour sipping at a fine red wine from Toiras' dwindling stocks as they debated the best way forward.

Consequently, neither of them was aware that the stormy sea conditions were tearing at the newly formed and nearly completed English blockade across the harbour mouth and that, as wood splintered and tore free from the binding chains, a small rowing boat, unnaturally low in the water and taking on board even more as waves broke over the side, became irrevocably caught up in the debris.

The boat's two occupants, cloaked and hooded against the harsh elements, were panicking. As one struggled with the oars to keep them clear from the damaged masts that pounded them mercilessly, the other fought to bail out excess sea water in a futile attempt to keep them afloat.

They were failing miserably!

As the little rowing boat was overwhelmed, the slightly-built bailer stood up, his panicked cries lost on the wind. At that same moment, a particularly large mast – intended for a warship – smashed into the small vessel and knocked him off balance. In a second he was gone, overbalanced and overboard. As the boat rocked dangerously, the rower screamed for his companion, reaching over the side and desperately searching the dark, murky waters for any sign of life. A terrified, white face and outstretched hand briefly broke the surface but he was beyond reach. As the oarsman stretched a little further, another wave and the same mast swung back, crashing into the little rowing boat with such violence that it crushed the side and the end was inevitable. It tipped, throwing the unsuspecting man into the sea to join his companion.

He frantically grabbed at another mast with one hand as it floated by – anything to keep his head above water – and tore at the clasp on the cloak in an urgent bid to free himself from it as the heavy, waterlogged, woollen material threatened to drag him down into the depths.

II

Checking the cavalrymen's quarters just after six in the morning, Aramis found that the men had not shown up and their beds remained undisturbed . Those who shared a room with them now knew that something was amiss and launched a barrage of questions that the musketeer resolutely refused to answer, partly because he had nothing of any worth to impart.

The pair had not been seen in the refectory breaking their fast – a fact in itself that raised additional concern as they never missed a meal. Confirmation of their inexplicable absence was never more obvious than at the morning muster when they still failed to put in an appearance.

There was no chance of further concealment of the situation when both Toiras and Tréville emerged and stood halfway up a flight of stone stairs so that they could look down upon the vast array of men below them, unease amongst them already palpable at the mysterious disappearance of two colleagues. The Captain issued a string of instructions, dividing the musketeer and cavalry regiment alike as they were sent off to conduct a thorough search of the entire Citadel complex.

"These men are to be found," Toiras declared as his bows furrowed fiercely. "They are responsible, by their own admission, for the heinous attack on another man and such behaviour and indiscipline will not be tolerated. They must be brought to book. Once apprehended, they are to be well-treated and conducted to my office immediately. I repeat – nothing is to happen to either of them and I will check to ensure that they have not suddenly accrued careless bruises. There will be consequences for anyone whom I consider to have used unnecessary force upon finding them."

Mutterings and rumblings began in earnest amongst the cavalrymen, even as they were dismissed and they eyed the musketeers with animosity and suspicion, not least Porthos, who had not attempted to hide the fact that he was looking for the men who had beaten his friend so severely.

"I fear that we are going to have trouble if we are not careful," Toiras opined as he watched the men dispersing; their body language clearly depicting an increasing tension that was likely to erupt if not suppressed.

The Governor turned slowly and gazed upon the Captain, as if gauging how his next words might be received.

"Bad feelings are rife amongst the men; from those angry at the beating your musketeer received to the cavalrymen, who clearly believe some form of retribution has been taken against their colleagues." Toiras hesitated. "How far would your man, Porthos, go in punishing those responsible?"

Tréville knew the question had to be asked but it did not make it any easier to hear it spoken aloud. He knew - for he had heard them forcefully declare it on more than one occasion – that if one of the _Inseparables_ were to be deliberately hurt, the other two would not shy away from potentially taking the law into their own hands up to a point. It was the oft-expressed creed by which they lived: 'All for one and one for all.' He hoped that, as the King's upholders of the law, they were well-trained and had enough self-control not to assign themselves as judge, jury and executioners unless they truly believed that justice would not be given but if one of them were to die, he understood only too well that he would have a hard time holding them back; if, indeed, he even wanted to!

But Athos had not died, although the outcome could have been so very different had not Savatier intervened.

Undoubtedly, Porthos would have wanted to see those responsible found and sanctioned, and it was to that end that Tréville had given him free rein to investigate. Now, it seemed, that instruction could come back as having caused nothing but trouble.

Tréville was suddenly conscious of the fact that Toiras was watching him carefully and waiting.

"If that is your circuitous way of asking me whether or not I think my man could kill those two cavalrymen and dispose of their bodies, then I tell you here and now that I would stake my reputation and very life in the belief that Porthos would not have done anything of the kind. He was set to bring them to me when they disappeared. I am more inclined to think that they have got scared at the prospect of the trouble they are in and have deserted," Tréville responded.

Toiras noticeably bristled. They were, after all, his cavalrymen originally and the musketeer was making a strong allegation.

"I hope, for your sake and that of your man, that you are correct in your assumption, for I fear what might happen if the rest of Plourde and Allard's regiment think otherwise," Toiras warned as he headed back towards his office, hands clasped firmly behind his back.

Tréville sighed and began to wonder what else might happen on this accursed island before the siege was through.

III

When Serge was serving lunch, it was clear that a simmering hostility permeated the refectory. Men from both regiments circled each other warily as they waited in line for food or piled up used trenchers, cups and spoons on the designated table. A slight bump and food spillage or the arrival of men from the two factions – for that was how they saw themselves now – simultaneously arriving at the same table were enough to threaten a full-scale argument and it was only the swift intervention of colleagues pulling them apart that avoided a physical altercation on more than one occasion.

Everyone had an opinion on the subject and deliberately raised voices expressing themselves at length on the subject only managed to heighten existing tensions. It was amazing how much people thought they knew when none was in full possession of the facts and much was dependent upon speculation and hearsay.

In short, two cavalrymen were missing and a musketeer had been asking too any questions about an attack on his friend. Why blame the cavalry? It could have been one of their own.

Serge was on the point of hitting people over the head with one of his heavier pans after he had stepped in for the fifth time to prevent a disagreement from escalating and he stood on a table to bellow his own orders. There would be no more food served at that time; they would all be thrown out whether they had finished eating or not and what was left over would be served cold as the evening meal if they did not stop their wayward behaviour immediately. He was still holding forth from the table top when Tréville walked in, his face like thunder as he demanded to know what was going on.

Once the old cook had explained, Tréville voiced his own support to the man and demanded that the men sit in silence, which they did with some reluctance.

"You need some exercise to burn off this pent-up, wasted energy," he barked to the men gathered. "You will spend the afternoon sparring and training within your regiments. There will be no more of this." He glared at them for a full two minutes, daring any of them to look his way with anything that could be construed as an air of defiance. As his own eyes swept over the gathered throng, the men shifted uneasily from one foot to another and began to study the floor. "Serge," he ordered, "get me some food."

As the afternoon progressed, the temperatures did not reach the ridiculous highs of earlier days and the men could exert themselves with accepted levels of discomfort as usually experienced when they were exercising as expected. The hunt for the missing men continued but it was becoming painfully apparent that they were no longer within the Citadel's walls; they were fast running out of places to look and some men had spread down to the waterfront to check the few buildings there.

It was late afternoon when Athos, tired of being restricted to his quarters and knowing of the task in which his brothers were engaged, had decided to get some fresh air and so wandered painfully and slowly into the main courtyard to sit on a bench and watch the fevered activity of training. He was greeted by colleagues and responded briefly when they asked how he was faring but they could see the discolouration of his features; the ghastly blues and blacks of his facial bruising already hinting at giving way in part to vivid violets and a sickly green. The swelling around his right eye was just starting to abate so that he could open it a little but it only served to confuse his vision and perception so he opted for keeping it closed.

Resting in the afternoon warmth, he did not miss the shadow cast over him from a towering figure. He opened the better eye and squinted up at the unfamiliar figure looming over him. From the uniform, the man was from the other regiment.

"It was you, wasn't it?" the man challenge, adopting a belligerent stance.

"What was me?" Athos was genuinely confused by the question.

"Don't get clever with me!" the man spat, grabbing Athos by the collar of his open doublet and hauling him to his feet, the sudden roughness jarring the broken rib and causing him to cry out. "You were the one who got beaten up and accused cavalrymen of being responsible."

Still weak and hurting from the beating, Athos was in no fit state to defend himself and hung limply from the man's firm grasp as his slow-functioning mind sought a resolution. He was not used to feeling so helpless and wished that any of the musketeers training nearby might see or hear what was unfolding.

"I didn't accuse anyone," he objected. "I didn't see who it was."

"So you point out the most likely candidates without any evidence," the man shouted, shaking the musketeer viciously and causing him to cry out again.

This time, it did not go unheard by the two closest musketeers and, enraged, they threw themselves at the man who held their brother, the four of them collapsing in a heap on the ground with Athos somewhere near the bottom as he was unable to roll completely clear of the entangled limbs. Knocked breathless, he tried to crawl clear, aware as he did so that more men entered the fray.

Men shouted insults, cursed with the rich vocabulary of the soldier, threw punches, kicked out at any available opposing limbs, grabbed others in headlocks, dashed heads against walls. Above all this was the unmistakable sound of metal meeting metal as men, who were supposed to be fighting side by side for France, drew weapons against each other.

Athos crawled to a wall and turned, sitting propped up against it and pain knifing through his body as he breathed hard and watched the melee with an increasing horror.

A barrage of musket fire silenced the men abruptly and they stopped instantly looking to where the smoke cleared. Upon the battlements stood Tréville, his face a mask of pure fury and flanked by half a dozen musketeers one each side of him, weapons trained on the men below.

"Enough!" he roared. "How dare you bring such disorder to the Citadel!"

He had no chance to continue his tirade as Governor Toiras crossed the courtyard, the men shuffling sideways to clear a path for him. He mounted the steps and approached Tréville, his eyes cold and his voice carrying to all gathered there.

"We are at war with the English, besieged by them and trapped within the Citadel and now, Tréville, you allow the cavalry and musketeers to turn it into a madhouse! Never have I seen such a display; men at each other's throats! The enemy is supposedly beyond these walls, not within them. You will find this Porthos and his friend, Aramis, for they are the last ones, apparently, to see the cavalrymen alive; you will have them escorted under guard to my office, Captain. Immediately!" Toiras turned to go.

"Why, Governor? Under guard? What has changed since our earlier conversation to warrant this?" Tréville was aghast.

"You haven't heard?" Toiras queried. "Perhaps your man Porthos is not as forgiving as you would believe. A body has been found floating in the harbour; it has been identified as that of Plourde!"

 _ **A/N The first makeshift blockade by the English was destroyed in a storm.**_


	40. Chapter 40

_**Dear all,**_

 _ **Some interesting little typos crept through on Friday - apologies again. Have at last seen S3E1 and loved it but am still endeavouring to avoid all spoiler alerts - not easy!**_

 _ **Okay, here we catch up with the trouble that Porthos and Aramis seem to have got themselves into. Thank you for the feedback on the previous chapter and that you did not see this particular twist coming! I do love to hear from you all and hope that I can manage to keep you guessing in future chapters.** _

CHAPTER 40

I

It did not take long for Tréville and four armed musketeers to find Aramis and Porthos for word of warning had already reached them from supportive colleagues and, whilst angry and bemused at the unfounded accusations, they firmly believed they had nothing to fear and thus resolved to meet their Captain, trusting in his innate ability to protect them and defend them in their innocence.

"I'm sorry," Tréville apologised as they were divested of the weapons by those who had reluctantly come to escort them to the Governor.

"You know we didn't do anythin' to them, don't you?" Porthos insisted, desperately wanting to hear that reassurance from his Captain.

Tréville raised an eyebrow. "I ought to be disappointed that you feel you even need to ask that question. Of course I know that you were not responsible and I have already told the Governor that. You will now tell him so yourselves and I shall be there to support you."

Their interview with Toiras was not immediate, however, and they were left standing outside the Governor's office, guarded in silence by their comrades as the door opened and closed on a flurry of activity. Peace needed to be restored to the Citadel and as some men arrived to make their report, others re-emerged with a string of orders decided upon by Toiras and Tréville in rapid consultation.

Eleven men in all had received hurts of varying degree, one of them quite serious, and had been dispatched to the infirmary, again swelling the number who occupied cots there. Those who had participated in the fray were being held in small groups according to their regiment in several storage rooms, the doors firmly locked to prevent escape or mixing with the other regiment to renew their dispute. Toiras needed to be convinced that their anger had subsided sufficiently before they would be released.

Duties had been hastily increased to ensure and maintain a calmer atmosphere and the remaining men had been sent to their quarters forthwith so that the courtyard, corridors and more communal areas fell eerily quiet. Orders to the refectory had been swift. The evening meal was to be of simple fare and the ale was to be watered even more so that the alcohol could not fuel already heated tempers. The men were to be allowed to fetch their food in small groups, alternating between the two regiments so that one could not level the charge of favouritism for the other, or of receiving the leftovers. They would then return to their quarters and eat there, each man made responsible for the cleaning of his utensils for the following day. There would be no socialising in the vain hope that it would curtail the spread or fomenting of bad feeling and, as a result, there would certainly be no opportunity for erroneous rumour to blossom.

At last the door opened wide and Tréville appeared.

"Come," he ordered and waited for Aramis and Porthos to move towards him. As their escorts made to follow, he raised a hand. "You are not needed. Blanchard and Pouquet, remain out here. You others are dismissed; go about your business." He re-entered the room and closed the door on inquisitive eyes.

Toiras was standing looking out of a window and did not turn as Porthos and Aramis halted before his desk and stood to attention. Instead, he chose to speak with his back towards them.

"Your investigations have reduced the Citadel to much admired disorder, gentlemen," he said, his tone brusque.

The two musketeers glanced at their Captain for some direction but his face remained expressionless.

Aramis cleared his throat, "We apologise, Governor, for we did not intend any of this to happen. We wanted to find out who had attacked our brother so savagely. Although we did not want to contemplate the idea that it could have been a fellow musketeer, we did not blindly rule out that possibility. Our questions led us to Plourde and Allard through their card playing with a musketeer. They confessed to us that they had beaten up Athos. "

"And you obtained this so-called confession how?" Still Toiras addressed the window. "Over a mug of ale, perhaps? A friendly game of cards? Just how did you persuade them to divulge the necessary information?"

There was a pause and then Porthos drew himself up to his full height and squared his shoulders. "Alright, I threatened 'em. I said if they didn't answer my questions, I'd do something to 'em. I intimidated 'em."

At last, Toiras revolved slowly and scowled at the musketeer. "What did you threaten to do?"

Porthos shrugged. "I never said, never needed to. They were quick to tell us what we wanted to know."

"So what did you plan?" Toiras deliberately looked the musketeer over from top to toe, making the unspoken assessment obvious. Porthos was, undeniably, a big, powerfully built man. Cross him and it would be easy to fear instinctively how he might react.

"Nothin', Governor. I 'adn't even thought it through. All I wanted to know was who'd hurt Athos an' why."

"They already seemed scared, Sir," Aramis interrupted.

"About what?" Toiras pursued the comment. "Are you suggesting there was someone else involved? I put it to you that they had heard that you were asking questions and, speaking bluntly, on a manhunt. After all, it was common knowledge amongst the men what you were doing; plenty of them have confirmed as much to me."

"I swear to you we 'aven't done anythin' to those two cavalrymen, Sir," Porthos insisted, struggling to maintain a tone of polite deference. "They were both very much alive when we left 'em."

"So you say, musketeer, but there are no other witnesses after that fact. The only corroboration you have is from each other and you must see that I cannot accept that alone. I am faced with the notion of two terrified men, cornered by you two and taken from a public place – that much can be verified - supposedly to their quarters, yet they are never seen alive again. You both have a reputation for bending the rules, shall we say, and all three of you have a penchant for being argumentative, not shying from a fight and, dare I say it, duelling."

"Governor, that is ..." Tréville began, attempting to defend his men from the scurrilous over-simplification.

"I, too, have been asking my own questions, Captain," Toiras interrupted, "and I have learned much about your _Inseparables,_ for that is what you call them, isn't it?" He waited until Tréville reluctantly nodded his affirmation. "Yes, your lieutenant had much to say about them. Let me see, how did he describe them?" and he looked upwards as if expecting to see the words written in the air above his head. "Ah yes: arrogant, undisciplined men who include an unscrupulous womaniser, a card cheat and a drunkard – not a very savoury description of those who make up the King's élite guard. Three men, all known to be fiercely protective of each other to the exclusion of all else. Just how far are you prepared to go in that protection, gentlemen?" He rounded on Tréville, "Especially when your Captain regularly turns a blind eye to your misdemeanours, demonstrating a questionable favouritism no less."

Tréville seethed, almost hearing the voice of Savatier mouthing the words and imagining how his second-in-command would have relished undermining the Captain's working relationship with Toiras whilst clearly attempting to inveigle himself into the Governor's favour.. It was bad enough when he remembered the disintegrating affiliation that he had with the lieutenant but it was totally unpalatable to contemplate trying to ride out a siege against the enemy if there were dissension and distrust between the two senior officers within the Citadel.

In an instant, a revelation hit him. Was this Savatier's intention? To destroy the association of the commanders so that discord filtered down through the ranks, weakening their defence against the English? Athos had suggested to him the possibility of an attack from within the Citadel but neither of them had envisaged that it would be manifested in this manner. Had Savatier fed the suspicion between the men? Even worse, he had seen the attackers when he went to Athos' assistance but perhaps he had lied when he said he could not describe them. Suppose that he was swiftly able to identify them and had used the mistrust between the regiments to his own advantage. It was one small step to the next chilling possibility; that Savatier had disposed of the cavalrymen himself to advance the conflict inside the Citadel. As the regiments fought amongst themselves, would they or could they re-unite in time to fight the English if an attack were to be launched against them?

"If you would permit me, Governor, that allegation is unfair," Aramis leapt to Tréville's defence. "There are many occasions when the Captain has had cause to reprimand or even punish the three of us and for the most part, I admit, they have been warranted; we have lost pay, been assigned extra duties and such like – probably more so than many other musketeers - but that surely demonstrates that the Captain is fair to all his men. He gives praise where it is due, gives sanctions where needed and balances all with a care and concern for every man under his command."

"I commend you for your loyalty to your Captain," Toiras conceded, "but you do not present yourself and your friends in a very favourable way when you acknowledge committing many such transgressions."

Tréville had recovered his composure and found his voice. "I dare say that my lieutenant failed to tell you, Governor, of the many times and ways in which these three men have served their king and country, going above and beyond their duty and what has been expected of them. Did he speak of the corruption and treachery they have exposed on more than one occasion; all of which would have gone undetected had they not pursued their investigations with their own inimitable style of resolve, intelligence, initiative and tenacity. Yes I may give them a freer licence than I would others in the regiment but that is because they have proven themselves repeatedly to be amongst my best men and can be trusted to come back with results. Their bodies bear the numerous scars that have resulted from the risks they have taken in their service to France and there have been far too many occasions when I have seen them fight their way back to consciousness, weak from blood loss or struggling to beat the fevers that sought to ravage them."

Tréville's emotive speech in defence of two of his best came to a halt and the men under discussion shuffled with embarrassment, all thoughts of being rigidly at attention forgotten in the face of their own Captain's reciprocated support and loyalty to them.

Toiras looked from them to him and back again. "I have been provided with such contrasting depictions of the same individuals that it is hard to believe that I look upon the same men."

Before he could say anything else, a commotion erupted in the hallway outside and voices were once again raised in anger with the objection of one clearer than the others. With an apologetic glance towards the Governor and an exasperated sigh as he wondered what he had to do to control his _Inseparables,_ Tréville went to the door and opened it.

"Get yourself in here and perhaps the Governor will permit you to sit before you fall down," he ordered to the empty doorway.

There was a pause and then Athos shuffled into view, his clothes dirty from where he had rolled upon the ground and an arm wrapped protectively across his bound ribs.

"Thank you but I will stand," he insisted as he limped towards his friends, stood between them and nodded towards Toiras. "I apologise for my intrusion, Governor, but I want to speak on my friends' behalf. This allegation that they have killed the cavalrymen is unfounded and wrong."

Toiras sat down behind his desk and steepled his fingers together as he scrutinised the newcomer. The man had obviously taken a savage battering but he stood, far from straight in deference to his injuries, and swaying unsteadily. The Governor could not fail to see Porthos take a step sideways in order to stand shoulder to shoulder with his injured companion, one arm sliding behind him to steady him if needed whilst Aramis shifted position and surreptitiously extended a hand with the intention of grabbing at him should his knees buckle. All protocol of standing to attention until bidden otherwise had disappeared and Toiras was seeing firsthand the unspoken and instinctive bond between these three men - the ones Tréville had named his _Inseparables -_ and he suddenly understood how these men functioned, how their own unique working relationship and evident brotherhood might spark resentment in others.

"For goodness sake, man, do as you're told and sit down," he ordered. Porthos darted for a chair against the wall and placed it behind Athos before easing him down onto it. It was instinctive for the big musketeer and Aramis to re-position themselves behind their seated friend and the Governor was amused to see that Porthos retained a hand on the chair back and Aramis laid a supportive hand on Athos' shoulder as if, even now, neither of them could trust him to refrain from collapsing and tumbling to the floor.

"You seem very sure of your friends' innocence," Toiras prompted.

"Of course, Sir," Athos replied. "It would not serve any purpose for them to fatally harm the cavalrymen. They could not hide their involvement for they had been too obvious in their questioning and no doubt Porthos was too vociferous in what he claimed he would do to the men responsible. He is hardly likely to make so bold and brash a threat within the hearing of so many and then carry it out. That is senseless and not his way. If Porthos had to resort to any force, I can assure you that he would not announce it first." It was the most Athos had spoken in one attempt since he was attacked and he broke off now to regain control of his breathing.

Toiras glanced towards Tréville who showed his agreement to what had been said with a brief dip of the head.

"But you have no proof," Toiras persisted.

"And with all due respect, Governor, you have no actual proof that Porthos and Aramis _are_ responsible for the deaths of those men; we cannot even say for certain that the men were murdered. It is all hearsay and conjecture. They are believed to be the last ones to see the men alive but that could equally be the preserve of the actual murderer, or perhaps the men were merely trying to leave the Citadel, got caught in the storm and drowned."

"I have here," and Toiras picked up a paper from the top of his desk, "a brief report from the infirmary where the body of Plourde was taken when it was pulled from the sea. There was much bruising evident upon the head and torso, suggesting a physical attack."

"Or injuries sustained as he struggled in the water amidst the materials breaking free from the wrecked blockade. He could easily have been knocked unconscious and drowned," Athos went on relentlessly.

Toiras paused, the idea sounding very plausible. "You are the second person to suggest that the men were deserting." He did not glance in Tréville's direction. "Tell me what makes you think it is a possible notion."

Athos took a deep breath. "It would be flattering to think they had developed a guilty conscience about giving me such a beating but I doubt it. They were probably more concerned about punishment or, more likely, they were afraid of the person who put them up to the beating in the first place."

"And you think this person, this Delacroix, is behind it?" Toiras was pleased to see the expressions of amazement that crossed the faces of the three younger men. "Captain Tréville explained what you had found out thus far and about the missing evidence when he and I met early this morning."

"So when Plourde's body was found in the harbour, he could have been thrown there after he was killed or he was trying to make good his escape and perished in the storm. How was he getting away though?" Aramis was thinking aloud as he tried to make sense of the theories.

"There is an old rowing boat moored at the far end of the harbour wall. Has anyone thought to see if it is still there?" Athos wondered.

From their reactions, it was quickly apparent that no-one had even known of its existence.

"I will send someone down to the harbour immediately," Tréville said and there was a lull in the conversation whilst he headed out the door to issue the command.

Toiras surveyed Athos carefully. "And you know of this rowing boat from having seen it the night you were attacked?"

Athos hesitated before answering, "I did not look for it that night; I had seen it before," and he looked to Tréville for guidance as to how far he might divulge information as he continued with his explanation.

Tréville took a deep breath. "At this point, Governor, I feel that I need to tell you a little more about Savatier and our suspicions."

II

Delacroix had taken up his designated position on the battlements, thankful that the torrential rain had eased and the wind was dying down; the constantly changing weather was nothing short of infuriating, especially for those who were exposed to its fickleness whilst on duty.

The unpredictable repercussions from the discovery of Plourde's body had been amazing and more than compensated for his initial concern when the corpse had been carried through the archway and into the courtyard. The overspill of tension and subsequent fight amongst the soldiers had been greater than he could have envisaged and he could never have planned for that to happen. The detention of Porthos and Aramis for the suspected murder of the two cavalrymen was another unexpected coup and neither had been seen again since they were marched to the Governor's office; he could only presume that they were still there, undergoing intense questioning. How he would have loved to be a witness to their discomfort as they tried to extricate themselves from their present trouble!

Alone on his watch, he allowed himself a sly smile and slid his hand into a pocket, feeling for the tiny object he had secreted there. When Garris had first come to him and warned him that Porthos was with the cavalrymen, he had succumbed to a momentary panic but then recovered quickly. He had sent the others to survey what was going on whilst he went to check upon a potential means of escape from the Citadel. They would have to bring their combined pressure to bear upon the two men, convince them that desertion was the only possible way of avoiding a serious military sanction and that was if they were first able to avoid whatever terrible physical punishment Porthos might see fit to deliver.

When the siege began, he had spent most of the first two days exploring the Citadel thoroughly, for he was never one to miss an opportunity and he wanted to ascertain all that the fortress had to offer. He had come across the rowing boat and duly noted that it was barely seaworthy. It was afloat but timbers were beginning to rot and a rough sea would pound it to pieces; Plourde and Allard would have to be either very gullible or very frightened men to pin their hopes of freedom on so poor a specimen of transport. He already considered them to be lacking intelligence for it had not taken long earlier in the day to gain access to their quarters, search it thoroughly and find the document he had written stashed in a highly unoriginal space beneath a floorboard. A candle flame had swiftly reduced it to ashes minutes later.

They had attempted to deny giving Porthos anything of relevance but they were as bad at lying as they had been at playing cards and so, as he assumed a trusting, concerned air, he exaggerated the horrible retribution he believed Porthos would foist upon them with sick pleasure; it had been all too easy to sow the seeds of desertion in their minds. He and his friends had facilitated their unobserved progress down to the harbour, urging them to hurry in case Tréville and his men returned for the cavalrymen. Untying the rope that secured the rowing boat to the quayside, he had even deigned to wish them good luck in their exploit.

Now, as he stood and looked out upon the English camp, he pulled the item from his pocket. It was a small, jagged piece of wood that he had gouged from the boat, beneath the wooden plank that passed as a seat, yet a little above the waterline when empty. Allard had climbed in first and the boat had sunk a little lower but when Plourde had added his weight, the water had lapped at the damaged area Delacroix had inflicted. As the boat made its way across the harbour, the musketeer was convinced that the little vessel was doomed and that the cavalrymen were, in the first instance, completely oblivious to their danger as their only desire was to escape the confines of the Citadel. It would be too late by the time they realised and, not wanting to be witness to their inevitable demise, he had gestured to his companions that they should seek shelter as the weather grew worse.

He drew back his hand and hurled the little piece of wood with all his might, releasing it to the air and watching it spiral out of sight into the darkness. The document had been destroyed and the cavalrymen had perished in their attempt to escape. If they had told Porthos and Aramis what had transpired, it was the word of the other two musketeers against his and he knew his friends would support him. The final, incriminating piece of evidence – the piece of wood – had likewise gone and none knew that he had committed cold-blooded murder; not Faron, Garris nor Bertram. Exultant, he realised that there was nothing to positively prove his involvement in the savage beating of Athos.


	41. Chapter 41

**_Dear all,_**

 ** _Thank you for you continued comments; they do mean a lot to me and in total, are fast approaching that of 'Renegade' which is very humbling and I thank you again for your continued support. In this chapter, Toiras is very much in control and the English threaten to rear their heads again._**

CHAPTER 41

I

Toiras sat back in his chair and exhaled a long breath of incredulity at what he had been told by Tréville with regard to Savatier and the unknown treachery that they feared he was planning. They waited patiently as he absorbed the details and then viewed the men before him anew; if Tréville were to be believed – and given the man's expertise and reputation, there was no reason not to – his men were once again proving their worth and commitment to the King.

"So what now, Governor?" Tréville wanted to know.

It had not been easy for him to acknowledge to anyone, let alone his superior, that two of his own men were potentially serious concerns when he had always believed that he ran a tight garrison, that his men were usually well-disciplined and trustworthy. He had always prided himself on being a good judge of character. When men had come to the garrison, seeking a commission, he had interviewed them at length, watched them spar with trained musketeers to see if they had the potential and selected those whom he deemed capable of fulfilling that promise.

Savatier had approached the musketeers with a good reputation moulded in the ranks of another regiment and his experience on the battle-field was extensive. Having proven himself to be both highly skilled and reliable, it had been an easy decision for the Captain to recommend his promotion to Louis some two years beforehand. Now, Tréville could not help but wonder what had happened to embitter Savatier and bring into question his loyalties. It had to be more than just the _Inseparables_ ; it was, he hoped, even more than Savatier's loss of confidence in his own capabilities as Captain.

Delacroix had been a different matter. On first meeting the young man, Tréville had not been impressed. Although demonstrating considerable skill with a rapier which could withstand some refining, there was something about him that Tréville disliked straight away. Perhaps it was the arrogant assumption that he would quickly be integrated into the regiment; perhaps it was his dependency upon his father, a minor noble, to ease his way into the musketeers by securing the commission from the King with a substantial contribution to the royal coffers. Whatever it was, Tréville had tried to dismiss his misgivings to give the man a chance but Delacroix remained a difficult man to like for the Captain, even though it was soon apparent that some of the regiment's members were worryingly drawn to him; it was strange as Tréville could hardly describe him as having a warm and mesmerising personality. It was obvious that there was a side to Delacroix that he was not permitted to see but that prospect still did not change his mind about his dislike for what he had witnessed from the man, not least his ongoing and – as far as Tréville was concerned – unfounded bad feeling with Athos.

Toiras stood and came round his desk to confront the musketeers. "For now, you two," and he indicated Porthos and Aramis, "will be locked up for at least tonight."

Objections from all four men were immediate but Toiras raised a hand to silence them.

"My reasons are manifold," he continued. "My priority is to restore peace and order to the Citadel and I have to convince the men confined here that all is being done to investigate what happened to Allard and Plourde and bring to account, where possible, those responsible. I have listened to you and your Captain and do not believe that you were involved in their disappearance but, as yet, we do not have any evidence after the fact. We need time for any such evidence to come to light but if that fails to materialise, I have to ensure that there is calm before I announce to all my conviction that you are innocent and consequently free to roam the Citadel once more. Likewise, I think that it is imperative at present to keep you secure for your own safety. I do not want anyone to consider taking the law into their own hands; _I_ am the law on this island and I need to be sure that I have done everything in my power to avoid any further outbreaks of violent disobedience."

Not for the first time, the younger musketeers looked, albeit with some reluctance, to their Captain for his leadership, despite knowing what his inevitable instruction would be.

"You will comply without argument," he instructed and they nodded their acquiescence.

Athos stood up. "If they are locked up, so am I."

Tréville's expression suggested that he could cheerfully throttle the young man whilst his friends raised their objections, concerned as they were for his comfort and well-being in his current state.

"And why would you wish to do that?" Toiras demanded, thinking that this might be taking their brotherhood a step too far.

"The fracas happened when a cavalryman wrongly accused me of identifying Allard and Plourde; I tried to correct him but he would have none of it. If others are of the same attitude, locking up Aramis and Porthos will not be enough to maintain the peace."

"And Athos could not withstand another beating if it were to happen. Locking him up would keep him safe too," Aramis insisted.

Toiras hesitated for a moment and then allowed himself a wry smile. "Take your men, Tréville, and lock them up for pity's sake. Anything for a quiet life, I say. Obviously, I cannot merely confine you to your quarters but there is no need for you to be incarcerated on the lower levels; there are several cells on the ground floor that will suffice that may be marginally more comfortable in that they are not damp. I suggest, Captain, that you select two or three men that you trust implicitly so that they can look after our prisoners here; I do not think it necessary to subject them to bread and water."

"Thank goodness for that," muttered Porthos in relief.

"Thank you, Governor," Tréville said, glaring at the big man as if daring him to speak again. "Let's get you gentlemen settled."

II

As things transpired, the three musketeers spent only one night and part of the next day in isolation in their respective cells. Claude and Serge were the two men whom Tréville trusted to take covered food to the trio, meals far superior to those they would have been given had they genuinely still been in trouble.

The situation changed abruptly when Allard's body was recovered mid-morning of the next day, bobbing in the water beneath a wooden extension to the quayside. Both Tréville and Toiras hurried to a side room off the infirmary where the corpse had been taken and stood silently watching as the sodden clothing was peeled away and the cold, white flesh exposed. They stepped in to examine the body firsthand, taking their time as they searched for any bruising or blemishes that might suggest foul play. Eventually, they both straightened up, Tréville with a sigh of relief and Toiras with a self-satisfied smile as they both realised the enormity of what they were seeing.

"There are no marks at all; not even the slightest bruising," Tréville breathed.

"He drowned," Toiras declared. "There is nothing to indicate that he was the victim of some violent attack and his body disposed of in the sea."

"The men I sent to check if the rowing boat was still moored at the quayside said there was nothing there. We must conclude that the pair of them took the boat with the intention of deserting but were out in the storm in a vessel that was too small and, from what Athos said, no longer very seaworthy. They were possibly already in trouble when they reached the English blockade and, as that broke up, they got caught up in the debris," Tréville concluded.

"I concur," said Toiras. "Now to sort out this mess and release your men from the cells."

The resolution was swift. With Athos, Porthos and Aramis held in cells, Tréville had suggested freeing the groups of men who had been involved in the fight but Toiras had been resolute. They, too, would remain locked in for the night and movement was still forbidden for all the other men unless they were on guard duty.

It was nearly midday when the two officers called a muster of all the cavalrymen and musketeers in the courtyard. The mood was quiet but sullen, the temporary internment having done much to cool tempers, only to replace it with a simmering resentment. That was until the three friends were brought out into the sunlight and audible, angry mutterings began to spread through the victims' regiment.

"Enough!" Toiras bellowed, taking up a position on the stone steps and glowering down at the assembly. "You will listen carefully to what I have to say and there will be a cessation of this unruly behaviour."

He proceeded to tell the gathered men about the recovered bodies, the rowing boat and the feasible theory that they had been in the act of deserting when they had unfortunately lost their lives in the poor weather conditions. Toiras was adamant that there was no evidence for any involvement of Porthos and Aramis in the deaths of the men and they were, after all, only concerned with finding out who had attacked their friend. The deserting men had confessed their guilt and, had they been innocent, they would have had no valid reason to attempt to leave; Toiras would have hoped that they had had enough faith in his judgement to confirm that they were guiltless had that been the case.

As the Governor's pronouncement came to an end and the men began to disperse, musketeers pausing long enough to shake the hands of their cleared colleagues and declare that they never thought they were to blame, Delacroix stood alone, fighting the urge to clench his fists in victory. With Porthos and Aramis freed, there was not going to be any resumption of investigations so no finger could subsequently be pointed in his direction. He, too, was in the clear.

III

An uneasy peace fell once more upon the cavalry section which did slowly improve over the following days but it was hard to motivate the men as boredom was the biggest danger and further rationing was introduced.

"I'm 'ungry still," Porthos complained, not for the first time as he stood on guard duty on the battlements.

"I know you are as you keep telling me but the more you say it, the more you're reminding yourself and the worse you will feel," Aramis instructed as he watched the English digging with renewed interest.

The rain had held off for three days now, inspiring fresh activity in the enemy trenches and, as the seas likewise stilled, so there was movement amongst the English fleet although it was not clear as yet just what they were doing.

"Why d'you always 'ave to be the voice of reason?" Porthos said grumpily.

Aramis smiled and clapped the bigger man on the shoulder. "I am here to cheerily give you advice and divert your attention. Look to the English and see their current antics."

Porthos studied the enemy trench diggers for a few minutes and then cupped his hands around his mouth as, laughing, he shouted as loudly as he could. "There you are. We wondered where you'd got to. We thought you'd got lost or were hidin' for a while."

Aramis sniggered at the taunt. "Some more advice, my friend; save your breath and voice. They either will not hear you or they speak no French."

"Dunno about that," Porthos grinned as he pointed in the direction of the trenches where the digging had suddenly stopped along one stretch and heads appeared above the rim to look in their direction. "It got some reaction."

"I'd react too if some crazy Frenchman was shouting at me," came a dry rejoinder.

"Athos!" Porthos greeted him warmly. "What are you doin' up here? I thought Tréville had got you doin' more paperwork to keep you out of trouble."

"There is a limit to the amount of paperwork that can be generated in siege conditions when nothing has happened for weeks. Repeatedly reading about food supplies will not increase what is not there," Athos said, growing suddenly serious.

"As bad as that?" Aramis asked worriedly. He had been teasing Porthos as the man was well-known for having a prodigious appetite but there were close to twelve hundred men in the Citadel and they were all feeling the hardship of rationing as the siege was about to start its seventh week.

Athos nodded, "It's been at least ten days since the last limited supplies managed to get through from the mainland and we will not be seeing anything for a while now that the English are renewing their efforts to build a more effective blockade across the harbour."

They were at the wrong part of the Citadel wall to see the harbour and Aramis frowned. "Are they using masts and wood again?"

"Not this time," Athos went on. "Tréville and I watched them this morning and it's clear that they are moving ships into position to make a physical barrier, lashing them together and anchoring them."

"They mean business then," Porthos said grimly.

"They are out to break us; to starve us out," Athos explained, his tone expressionless. "More small vessels left the fleet and headed towards the shore this side of the Fort de la Prée."

"Reinforcements?" Aramis could not hide the alarm in his voice; they were already woefully outnumbered and as long as the enemy had been making their serious tactical errors, they stood some chance of holding out against them but there had to come a time when the superior numbers on the English side worked in the enemy's favour.

Athos handed over a spyglass in a leather case. "That is what Tréville fears so he wants you to watch the direction on the far side of the English camp carefully for that is where they will approach. If you see them, try to determine numbers and get word to him as quickly as possible, not that we will be in a position to take any action as yet."

The friends fell silent, their gaze turned to the English camp and beyond as if they were united in scanning the horizon for the marching reinforcements. Fidgeting, Athos seemed to be in a hurry to return to the mundane paperwork.

"I'm glad to see you an' all that," Porthos said, "an' I thought you might be missin' us but you can't seem to wait to get away."

"Oh I agree entirely," Aramis quipped, but his smile faded when he saw that Athos remained serious as he levelled troubled, green eyes at them.

It had been several days since the swelling had completely disappeared, allowing the right eye to open properly, and the rest of the bruising that had disfigured him was virtually non-existent. His rib was still bound on Aramis' insistence to aid the healing process but he was moving with greater ease, having quickly learned his limitations.

"What's wrong?" Aramis persisted.

"Tréville is worried about potential reinforcements but it could have waited a little longer. He sent me away deliberately when Savatier arrived to see him."

"You left them alone together?" Aramis could not believe it after they had worked so hard to protect their Captain.

"What do you take me for? Of course I did not want to leave them alone but Tréville insisted and I could not be seen by Savatier to disobey a straightforward order like that. The Captain is at least forewarned and more than capable of defending himself; he has weapons to hand. Besides, their voices were already raised before I had even had the chance to close the door. Claude and Moreau are on duty outside the Captain's office but I need to get back."

"They were arguin'?" Porthos said. "About what?"

"I don't know," Athos countered, "but I'm hoping that the Captain will tell me or at least give me an idea."

Aramis was worried. "We would come too except that we would be in trouble for abandoning our posts."

"Savatier would not be so stupid as to try anything against the Captain with the others standing outside the door," Athos insisted.

"Granted, so long as the two guards aren't sent away like you," Aramis warned.

The idea had obviously not occurred to Athos as his alarm was immediately evident and he took to the stairs as fast as he dared.

Claude rolled his eyes as the younger musketeer hastened towards him. "Good job you're back."

"Are they still arguing?" Athos wanted to know.

"Nope," Claude reassured him. "Savatier stormed out of 'ere a couple of minutes ago and slammed the door shut behind 'im. I'd never dare do that to the Captain. I'm surprised 'e didn't follow 'im out an' take 'im to task over it."

"Do you know what they were disagreeing about?" Athos asked.

Claude frowned disparagingly. "You think I'm goin' to gossip about the Captain's business?"

"Claude," Athos began appealingly, "this is important. If you won't tell me, I'm sure Moreau will."

The other musketeer raised his hands defensively. "Now don't start trying to draw me into this."

The old man sighed, evidently reluctant to reveal what he and Moreau had overheard. "Well, they were goin' on about the Duke of Buckin'ham for a start and changed to the dead cavalrymen. Then they were talkin' about you an' Porthos an' Aramis. The Captain wasn't 'appy that Savatier told the Governor about you boys and he was lettin' him know in no uncertain terms."

Athos was unhappy that he had been the cause of further disagreement between the Captain and his lieutenant but he did not have the opportunity to ask anything more because footsteps along the corridor heralded the arrival of another musketeer with a sealed, written message for the Captain.

"I'll take it to him," he offered, extending his hand to receive the missive.

Knocking on the door, he visibly flinched at the anger remaining in Tréville's voice when he was bidden to enter. He said nothing but waited patiently as the older man tore open the paper and read its contents.

"Walk with me," Tréville insisted as he dropped the note on his desk and strode towards the open doorway, Athos falling into step a pace behind. It was a familiar instruction and the younger man thought nothing it. "The Governor requests our presence."

Athos was bemused. "He wants to see me too?"

"That is what he has said," Tréville admitted.

The two men made their way as quickly as possible to the Governor's office and, on being admitted, both were disgruntled at finding Savatier already there. Athos sensed the anger pouring off Tréville in waves and he wondered if the lieutenant had gone straight to the Governor to register a formal complaint against the musketeer Captain in light of their most recent difference of opinion. Instinctively, he took a step closer to his commanding officer in a visual affirmation of his loyalty. Savatier, however, was scowling at their arrival so perhaps he had not precipitated their summons and Athos certainly had no idea as to why he had been included.

"Gentlemen," Toiras greeted them airily. "Come in, come in."

He waited as the three musketeers lined up in front of his desk.

"I have made a decision," he announced. "I am going to write a letter to the Duke of Buckingham and tomorrow, Lieutenant, you will deliver it on my behalf to the English camp and you, Athos, will accompany him."

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **Porthos' taunt directed at the English in the trenches apparently happened. An English officer reported that the French 'cheerily told us that they thought we had been lost and wondered where we had lain hidden the while'.**_

 _ **It's possible that the barrier created by the English could have been referred to as a pontoon, a floating structure or bridge with etymological roots going back to Latin but the word is also from the French 'ponton' and as that was used in the late 17**_ _ **th**_ _ **century, I deemed it inappropriate to use here for 1627. This was the second attempt at an effective blockade by the English.**_

 _ **Back in England, Sir William Becher had mustered another 400 men in Portsmouth but transport for France was delayed in the Thames as they waited for munitions to be released by the ordinance department**_. _ **Instead, Buckingham seconded another five hundred men from the fleet who will shortly arrive on the island.**_

 _ **Toiras did send a letter to the Duke of Buckingham and some of the contents of that letter will be revealed in the next chapter.**_


	42. Chapter 42

_**Dear all,**_

 _ **Thank you so much for all the lovely comments for the last chapter. Thank you to my 'regulars' for taking the comments through the 400 mark and thank you to new friends for taking the time to comment. I do love hearing from you and your reactions.**_

 _ **Here, Savatier and Athos set off to the English camp with Toiras' letter.** _

CHAPTER 42 Late August, 1627

"I can see that you do not agree with my decision," Toiras stated.

Tréville shifted uneasily in his chair. He was in the Governor's office mid-evening after they had finished eating a mutton stew but that had been something of a misnomer, another vegetable stew would have been more accurate given the paucity of meat. It was a worrying portent of things to come if the siege were to persist in the long-term. Although food remained in the stores, it was senseless being careless or wasteful and it had to be eked out for there was no way of knowing how long the Citadel was to be besieged. Meat had been salted and smoked and would last a little longer but perishable goods would soon cease to exist if supplies from the mainland were not forthcoming.

Now he and the Governor took their ease and sipped at a fine brandy Toiras kept in his own cellar.

"I would be lying if I denied it, Governor," Tréville said slowly, deliberately maintaining a neutrality in his voice.

"Your reasons?" Toiras refilled his glass and leaned forward to replenish that of the Captain.

"I have told you of our fears where Savatier is concerned, that if we are correct in thinking that he might have you or me in his sights as victims, he is in league with the English. What would it serve to send him directly to the Duke in the English camp?"

"And how many days have you had your suspicions without discovering anything more?" The Governor answered Tréville's question with another. "You have said yourself that you do not know his intentions. This will perhaps force his hand."

"By sending him straight into the arms of our enemy that he possibly serves? And what of Athos who goes with him? Is he walking into a trap? Will they take him captive or worse?" There was an edge creeping into Tréville's voice.

"We have to know one way or the other and this gives us the first main opportunity to find out about Savatier," Toiras went on relentlessly.

Tréville would not relent. "And you would be prepared to risk the life of one of my best men so that you can find out?"

"Do you have any better idea?" Toiras fired back. "Who better to watch Savatier in the English camp than the man who has had suspicions about him for a while and has already been watching him over a period of time? He will know what he is looking for and will be able to detect the slightest changes in the Lieutenant's behaviour should they arise. Why do you hesitate? Do you think he is not sufficiently recovered from his beating to do this?"

"Well no; he is much better …" Tréville began.

"Then what? Do you think he is not up to the task? That he will baulk at this responsibility?"

"Absolutely not!" Tréville bristled. "He will be totally committed to what is required of him."

"Then you hesitate because …?"

Tréville took a deep breath. "Because he is too good a man to lose easily and this enterprise is fraught with danger."

"How so? How does this differ from the other visit to the English camp made, as it happens, by Aramis and Porthos? They went to make a diplomatic appeal and were received with respect and grace by the Duke who obliged that request to take our wounded officers to the mainland. I have composed a letter that is sealed and ready to be taken to him, from one nobleman to another. I will entreat his sense of chivalry and nobility under a white flag. There should be no reason to suppose that your man will be in any increased danger but even if he is, as a musketeer, he knows what risk is in the service of France. Is not this prospective audience in the English camp in the country's service?"

As harsh as he sounded, there was logic in Toiras' words that Tréville was forced to acknowledge and he had to search his conscience as to why he was so reluctant to send Athos with Savatier the following morning. He did believe that there was a potential danger to Athos, yet he knew the young man had more than enough skill to fend for himself. He also had no doubt that Athos would only use force against Savatier should the need arise but he wondered what the resultant impact might be upon the musketeer.

II

Tréville had a sleepless night and the misgivings were still uppermost in his mind the next morning when he was back in the Governor's office as Toiras, strangely ebullient at the imminent communication with the English, handed over the sealed letter into Savatier's safe keeping before taking the time to commend the musketeers on their appearance and reminding them that, as representatives of France, they were immaculately turned out. They might be under siege but they were letting the English see, in no uncertain terms, that standards were not slipping within the Citadel. It was, Athos knew only too well, the same message that had been given to Aramis and Porthos

This day promised to see a return to high temperatures and the heavy leather breeches and doublet, together with the equally weighty woollen dress cloak meant that perspiration beaded Athos' brow and his palms were slick as he strode out to where his friends waited by his horse. There had been harsh words spoken the previous day when he told them of Toiras' mission, none of them directed at Athos himself but Aramis had tried to insist that, with a broken rib, he needed more time to heal whilst Porthos was beside himself with anger at the thought of Athos riding out with the traitorous Savatier.

"What can he do in full sight of so many people?" Athos had reasoned patiently. "From the battlements, you can watch our progress from the main gate, past the trenches and into the English camp. You have shown me through the spyglass the tent that Buckingham uses."

"What's to stop him from doing somethin' and blamin' it on an enemy soldier? I wouldn't put anythin' past 'im," Porthos complained bitterly.

"But if we thought he was going to hurt you, you would be too far away for us to do anything with speed," Aramis added. His expression grew dark. "I can only keep a musket trained on him for so long with the likelihood of hitting him if need be."

"I appreciate the concern of both of you but I do feel that you are both over-reacting," Athos said gently, not wishing to upset either of them, preferring to placate them instead.

"I can't believe that Tréville is letting you do this," Porthos persisted.

"Have you ever stopped to consider that he possibly had no choice?"Athos challenged and left the pair of them thinking.

They were no happier as Athos approached his mount and relieved Porthos of the reins as he prepared to mount.

"You're still goin' ahead with it then?" Porthos tried again.

Athos pulled a face. "Of course I am; it is not my decision to change. Savatier is now in possession of the letter so our departure is imminent."

As his horse suddenly bowed its head, he was able to look across to where Tréville was having a last conversation with his lieutenant. Admittedly, there were no smiles but at least there was civility between them after the row of the previous day and he was reassured to see them clasp and shake hands. The Captain took a step back to give the lieutenant room to mount.

"Make sure you concentrate," Aramis was saying as he grasped Athos' arm and squeezed it fondly.

"Watch 'im all the time," Porthos ordered as he pulled Athos into a bear hug, remembering just in time about the rib and not holding him too tightly. "You take care now," he whispered into his friend's ear before releasing him.

"Gentlemen," Tréville greeted as he came round the front of the horse to join them. He looked at Athos pointedly. "A word before you depart."

Athos nodded and also looked meaningfully at his two friends.

"Time for us to go," Aramis said diplomatically with a grin. "We'll watch you from the battlements." He began to walk away.

"You just remember what we said," Porthos growled before stalking off in the wake of the marksman.

Tréville absentmindedly patted the neck of Athos' mount, his eyes scanning the courtyard rather than meeting the younger man's gaze. "No doubt your friends are exhorting you to take particular care," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"They are," Athos agreed.

"As am I," Tréville said determinedly, suddenly focusing on him. "I tried to dissuade the Governor from sending you with Savatier but he is resolute and believes that you are the best man for the task."

Athos narrowed his eyes. "And you do not?

"Nothing is further from the truth. I know damned well that you can do it; no-one else is better suited to the mission but I worry that it puts you in unnecessary danger."

Athos paused, moved by the officer's concern. "But I am on the alert as we well know that he cannot be trusted."

Tréville dipped his head in agreement. "And that is the only thing that gives me comfort."

"Do you know what is in the missive that we take?" Athos dared to ask. "I hope that it will not antagonise the Duke."

"Sadly, not all of it, no; but I trust the Governor. He claims that it is an amiable letter between nobles." He tried to ignore the derisive snort that instinctively escaped Athos, born into the French nobility himself and not holding a high opinion of his peers. "All he kept muttering was something about requiring melons."

Athos' jaw dropped in disbelief. "Melons?" he hissed. "He sends us into the enemy camp with a letter about melons?"

Tréville shrugged. "I don't know all the details but that is part of it, apparently."

Athos let loose with a rare expletive and swung with ease up into the saddle, the broken rib not causing any undue discomfort. As he gathered up the reins, Tréville caught the horse's head in one hand and laid the other on Athos' arm.

"I urge you to be vigilant," he said quietly to the mounted musketeer. "Stay safe, Athos."

"If you are ready," came Savatier's curt interruption to him, "we will ride."

Athos held the gaze of his anxious commander for a moment, his head giving an almost imperceptible dip in farewell as he urged his mount forward to join the lieutenant.

When they emerged from the Citadel and slowly rode along the track that would take them to and past the English trenches, Savatier held prominently aloft a large white square of material as a symbol of good intent. They travelled together in silence for some way and Athos knew, without turning his head, that his friends watched from the Citadel's battlements. He thought back to the words of advice they and Tréville had given him and he surreptitiously glanced sideways at the grim-faced man who rode beside him.

There was a suppressed tension about Savatier that seemed to go beyond that expected for riding into the enemy camp. Athos was anxious himself, it was only natural and he was pleased that he had listened to his friends' description of their journey to meet with Buckingham for the sight of Englishmen rising to their feet, staring at them and pointing weapons in their direction was more than a little disconcerting, but at least he had known that it was likely to happen.

"I did not require company," Savatier suddenly announced.

Athos turned to look at him but the lieutenant was staring resolutely ahead, ignoring the English soldiers.

"It would not be appropriate for an officer to ride into the enemy camp without an escort, no matter how limited that is," Athos said, striving not to sound critical.

"I could order you to go back," Savatier continued.

"You could," Athos admitted, all the while wondering why the lieutenant was desperately trying to be rid of him. "No offence meant, Sir, but then I would have to disobey you, for my instructions come from a higher authority than you. I surely do not need to remind you that I am sent with you by Governor Toiras."

Athos could tell from the stony silence that ensued that Savatier was not amused and possibly rethinking his options. If he were that determined to enter Buckingham's tent without Athos in tow and for whatever reason, he might resort to desperate measures. Warily, Athos eyed the weapon in front of him in the saddle holster and immediately dismissed it as a choice; it would take too long to fire and to draw at this point would only antagonise the English for they would misunderstand his intentions and they would react. He would be dead in seconds. He straightened in the saddle and felt the reassuring pressure of the main gauche in the belt at his back. Pulling on the reins very slightly, the animal fell back, allowing Savatier to ease a foot or two in front. Athos was relieved that the man was so distracted that he had not seemed to notice.

It was minutes before they were met by mounted Englishmen and Athos recognised the man in front as the one with the appallingly broken French when Buckingham had offered to transport the wounded officers to the mainland. He, too, must have recognised the musketeers as he gave a half-hearted smile and launched into a garbled greeting. Athos tried to encourage him in his efforts by returning the smile and raising a hand in salutation but there was nothing convivial in Savatier's demeanour.

"I come from Governor Toiras with a message for the Duke of Buckingham," he said quickly, making no concession for the man's limited understanding.

The Englishman frowned as he tried to process the gabbled words and grasping at the heavily accented version of the name he knew well. He beckoned to them to follow and turned his horse as other mounted men took up position behind the musketeers. As they journeyed on towards Buckingham's tent, it was not lost on Athos that Savatier had referred only to himself, ignoring Athos entirely.

They dismounted outside the tent and the officer who had led them signalled for them to hand over their weapons, his command of vocabulary obviously abandoning him at that point. Savatier turned to Athos as he was in the process of unbuckling his weapons belt.

"Wait here," he ordered as he ducked and entered the tent.

Apart from the fact that he was not going to be separated from the lieutenant at this juncture and that he was more than a little intrigued at the prospect of seeing the famous Duke of Buckingham, Athos had little choice but to follow Savatier into the tent as he was pushed in after him by the soldiers that had escorted them.

He moved to stand beside the lieutenant as, further inside the tent, an imposing figure rose to his feet from behind a desk. Athos was the first of the Frenchmen to bow slowly and held his position as he waited for the English nobleman to speak. Savatier seemed to hesitate before he, too, bowed low, tension rolling off him in waves so that Athos was able to sense it.

"Welcome, good sirs." The Duke waited until they straightened up and stood to attention. "And you are?" His voice trailed off as he expected an introduction.

Savatier eyed the Englishman coldly. "Lieutenant Savatier and this is Musketeer Athos."

"Gentlemen," the Duke acknowledged them formally. "I understand you have a message for me from the Marquis de Toiras."

Savatier held out one empty hand whilst moving the other slowly to an inside pocket, retrieving the letter and handing it over. Athos was aware that the lieutenant was looking round the tent, assessing those present. Besides the Duke, there was the officer who had accompanied them and two other older men who were probably advisors to Buckingham.

The Frenchmen waited as the Duke broke the seal on the letter, unfolded it and began to read. He suddenly laughed but there was no scorn; it was the sound of genuine amusement and he turned to the men with him to share the reason for his entertainment.

"The Governor sends warmest felicitations and asks if I know of any melons remaining on the island. How wonderful! I will send men out searching immediately and we will ensure that these two good Frenchmen return with a supply for him."

As the Englishmen joined together in their mirth, Athos was aware of furtive movement to his left and he glanced down in time to see the glint of metal appear below the cuff of Savatier's doublet as a poignard slid downwards into his right hand.

He had but a moment to react as he realised that Savatier was not in league with the English. Far from it! It was his intention to assassinate the Duke.

Athos threw himself at the lieutenant, sparing no thought for his own safety as he roared a warning to Buckingham.

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **The poignard (poniard) was a long, narrow pointed dagger, similar to the Italian stiletto.**_

 _ **Toiras did send a letter to Buckingham asking if there were any melons on the island. There is more to the melon story which will emerge in subsequent chapters.**_

 _ **I had planned for some time that Savatier would make an attempt on the life of the Duke of Buckingham but was astounded later to discover a brief reference to an incident in a book. Whilst on the**_ _ **Ȋ**_ _ **le de R**_ _ **é**_ _ **, an attempt to assassinate Buckingham was made by a Frenchman! There is more to come there too.**_


	43. Chapter 43

_**Dear all, thank you SO much for all the wonderful feedback on chapter 42. I am delighted that my cliff-hanger caught out so many of you! I dare to wonder what you might make of this one!**_

CHAPTER 43

Pain! At least Athos knew that he was still alive because of it but, for the life of him, he could not recall why or how he hurt to that extent. He lay still, tensing and flexing muscles as, with eyes shut tight, he focused on his body, inch by careful inch, for he well remembered the last time he was crawling his way back to consciousness after the savage beating he had received at the hands – and feet – of Plourde and Allard. He did momentarily wonder if it was still that occasion and that his mind was playing tricks on him but he did have a definite memory of both men having drowned.

He was lying sprawled on his front, left arm down by his side whilst his right was curled up round his head, almost protectively as his left cheek was pressed against a rough surface. Wood! He was lying on a wooden floor but where? Was there a wooden floor in the Citadel? Frustrated, he could not remember. His legs felt fine but he was loath to move them immediately and so he turned his attention to his torso. Inhalations were shallow and ragged as he sought to control his breathing until it was steady, gradually taking deeper breaths until he was convinced that no further damage had been done to his ribs. His arms twitched as he lay there and he was reassured when no resultant agony knifed through his limbs. Relieved, he decided that he had neither been shot nor run through with a rapier.

By a methodical process of elimination, he realised that the pain was confined to his head but he could not determine a precise location. Had he been punched hard on the jaw? Had he been struck heavily from behind, rendering him unconscious? Had he tripped, fallen and hit his head? For a brief moment he even toyed with the idea that he was drunk but then he rapidly dismissed that notion.

With increasing irritation, he was aware that he could not fill in the somewhat large gaps in his most recent memory so, eyes still squeezed shut as he fought to remain calm, he explored what he did know. He was Athos of the King's Musketeers, formerly Comte de la Fère – and there was too much that immediately sprung to mind on that subject – and he was on the Ȋle de Ré in a besieged Citadel, holding out against the English led by the Duke of Buckingham.

Buckingham! There was something there that teased at him, a thought that danced around at the periphery of his understanding and then moved beyond his grasp. His fruitless ruminations were interrupted by a door opening and footsteps behind him on the wooden floor. There were voices but they were making unintelligible sounds and the concentration it took to listen to them exacerbated the relentless throbbing inside his skull. Had they come to help or was he in some sort of new danger that he could not even identify?

An uncomfortably familiar sensation stirred in the pit of his stomach and began to spread. Sweat trickled down his face as he reluctantly reached an inevitable conclusion for, through the length of his body, the floor on which he lay was not stationary. It was not undulating as such but he keenly felt a gentle rise and fall and then a sideways motion.

He groaned. "Don't tell me I'm on another damned boat."

An amused, male laugh was the instant response. "Ship, Sir, ship. The word 'boat' is not a worthy epithet but I will not take offence." The voice was rich, cultured, the French fluent but accented.

"Did I say that out loud?" Had Athos the energy, he would have been mortified.

"I am afraid you did," the amusement was still evident.

Athos struggled to sit up, prising open his eyes and letting out another long, low groan as he contemplated which felt worse: his head or his stomach. He attempted to distract himself by taking some interest in the company and his surroundings.

He was in a grand cabin of finely carved oak beams, panels and decoration. Comfortably and richly furnished, this was undoubtedly designed to be luxury away from home and the man for whom it was supplied moved with graceful ease from where he had been sitting at a desk and round to its front where he perched against its edge, arms folded.

Athos put a hand down behind him and tried to push himself up to his feet but failed miserably, collapsing onto his rump again with an ungainly thud.

"My apologies, Your Grace," he began, having recognised the English duke from his earlier, brief encounter and aware of frightening fragments of memory coming back. He still could not clarify the details but he knew he was in trouble and wanted to buy time by giving the man the deference that was due him by rank, enemy or not. "Give me but a moment and I will regain my feet." He went to try again.

"I advise you to stay where you are, Sir. You are not looking in the best of health," advised the Duke.

Athos huffed in irritation. Why did so many people recently keep telling him to stay in one place or sit down? It was becoming annoying so he tried to ignore it and get his feet under him again but a figure that he had not seen before as it was lurking just inside the door, now moved into vision and waved a pistol in his direction so he abruptly ceased moving, especially as his attempt had caused the nausea to gather momentum. He swallowed hard, his face burning with embarrassment. Heaven forbid that he should embarrass himself even further by vomiting in the Duke's presence and over his cabin floor!

Buckingham must have noticed the reason for his discomfort and gave a sharp order to the other man in the room that Athos did not comprehend for it went beyond the limited English that he had. The next thing he knew, a chair had been dumped near him, legs clattering on the hard decking, and he was unceremoniously hoisted up under the arms and deposited on the chair with as much care as a sack of flour. He was struggling to control his unhappy stomach at the rough treatment when the man who had rendered the reluctant assistance deposited a bucket by his side and gruffly fired an unintelligible instruction at him.

"Vasa vana plurimum sonant," the Duke uttered and, without thinking, Athos gave an amused snort as he recognised the Latin saying. The Duke was being less than complimentary about the third man in the cabin by suggesting that he was lacking in intelligence and consequently made a lot of unnecessary noise to make up for the fact.

Buckingham looked at Athos thoughtfully. "You understood what I said?"

Athos gave a slight smile in response, "Yes, Your Grace."

The Duke issued another order in English and, grunting his evident disapproval, the other man left the cabin and slammed the door shut behind him.

"I have ordered him to wait outside," Buckingham explained in French. "Something tells me the man who saved my life will not take the opportunity now to do me harm but, just to be sure …." He let his voice trail off and inclined his head to the pistol and dagger that lay nonchalantly on the desk top.

Not sure whether or not he was expected to speak, Athos decided to remain quiet and took advantage of the moment to properly study the nobleman. Tall and lean - a physique more hinted at by his breeches and legs than the heavily padded, black doublet which broadened his shoulders excessively - he was tanned by the air more than would have been expected for one of his rank. He had not hidden below decks on his voyage nor had he merely sat in his tent on arrival at Ré but had been actively out amongst the men. A fine lace collar lay flat against the dark velvet and an exquisitely embroidered sash on a broad red fabric fell across his body from right shoulder to left hip, its significance lost on the musketeer. His eyes, two dark chips, were ever watchful and sharp whilst a beautifully shaped moustache and sharply pointed goatee completed his features. Dark hair swept back from his forehead and fell in a mane of tightly coiffured curls. Buckingham, somewhere in his early to mid-thirties, was a handsome man without doubt and knew it.

"How are we to converse then?" Buckingham suddenly asked, drawing Athos' attention back to his own plight. "In French, English or Latin?"

"French, if Your Grace has no objection. My English is limited to a few words although we could resort to Latin if problems occur," Athos offered.

"Your Latin is that fluent?"

Athos considered his answer carefully. The Duke might appear to be mild-mannered and demonstrating some hospitality but he was the enemy and Athos was his prisoner, although he was still endeavouring to work out how that had occurred and how he came to be on board an English vessel. "It is much better than my English."

The Duke chuckled at his response. "French it is then, unless we get to a stage when you are heartily tired of my accent, at which point we will both resort to a schoolboy Latin."

"Your French is excellent, Sir," Athos said, genuinely meaning it when he thought of his own poor command of the Englishman's language but realising, even as the words left his lips, how sycophantic he was in danger of sounding. After all this time, his understanding of courtly behaviour had not been eroded.

Buckingham dipped his head in acknowledgement of the compliment and grew serious. "I thank you, sir, for saving my life at such risk to your own. It was a vicious fight that my assailant put up and I was sore afraid that you had taken hurt from him. I must apologise, however, for the overzealous behaviour of my men when they rushed in upon the fray for they did not know which of one you was the assassin as you fought together. Sadly, one of them struck you heavily and you were rendered unconscious. I did prevent them from immediately clapping you in irons, however."

"Thank you," Athos said simply as he assimilated the information he had been given; it explained some but not all of his questions. So he had saved the Duke's life; the life of an enemy of France. How was that going to be received when, or if, he ever returned to the French lines? In that one act, had he committed treason against his own country and his King?

"From your spontaneous action, I take it that you did not know the intention of your lieutenant?" There was an edge to the Duke's voice that had not been there before.

With that question, all remaining confusion dissipated and Athos remembered the details of what had transpired within the enemy camp with alarming clarity. Savatier had tried to assassinate the Duke, the close confidant to the English King.

"No, Sir. If anything, I had suspected that he was about to move against Governor Toiras or Captain Tréville. We even thought that he was in your employ." Athos admitted the last in a rush, his voice low as he realised how ridiculous the notion sounded, especially in light of what had happened.

Buckingham moved back to sit in his chair behind the desk and continued to scrutinise Athos. At length, he asked, "So why _did_ you save my life?"

The answer was so simple, so obvious. "We had entered into your camp under a flag of truce, to talk and bring you the message from Governor Toiras. We had been given safe, uninterrupted passage through your men and expected to return the same way. That flag is recognised by all, its symbolism unarguable and yet Lieutenant Savatier was set on abusing that agreement in the worst way possible."

Buckingham clapped his hands together in pleasure. "You are a man after my own heart, Athos of the King's musketeers, a man of honour, one who upholds the chivalric code, a veritable William Marshal."

"You do me too much credit, Your Grace, to utter my name in the same breath as that of Williame le Mareschal," Athos countered, honoured by the accolade yet deeming it too high a praise for anything he had done.

"You know your history then?" Buckingham went on. "Of course, I expect you have read of his prowess in the tourneys of western France."

"And the fact that he served four of your monarchs and was regent to a fifth. My father ensured that I studied military history and strategy from much of western Europe, insisting that I began with William, Duke of Normandy."

"Not light reading for a boy of tender years, eh?" The Duke laughed, the subject not obviously too much a favourite with him.

"On the contrary, Your Grace, I found it fascinating and spent many a long hour lost in the pages of some book and absorbing its instruction. As far as the Marshal is concerned, if I could emulate a little of his commitment to his successive Kings in that which I have sworn to King Louis and Captain Tréville, then I would be a happy and contented man, believing that I had done my best."

In continuing the discussion regarding William Marshal, as the Duke so obviously held the knight in such high esteem, Athos was hoping that the nobleman would see that he was definitely no traitor and could not be turned from his own oath of loyalty to the French King. He could not help but wonder what the Englishman intended for him and if there would be an attempt to glean, by force if necessary, any valid information whilst he was in enemy hands.

"Who are you, musketeer Athos? Who are you really?" The Duke was decidedly curious. "I know from my visit to the French court that the élite guard is mainly, though not solely, made up of sons of the nobility so I ask again, who are you? You are educated, tutored in Latin, history and military strategy; you speak with the cadence and vocabulary of the noble born and the manner in which you conduct yourself suggests the same."

Athos took a deep breath. "I was – am - the Comte de la Fère."

Buckingham stroked his moustache. "An interesting correction of verb tense, Comte."

Athos winced at being addressed by his title. "I do not go by that title anymore; I have left that life behind me and all that it entails."

"Intriguing." The Duke's brows furrowed. "Why did you renege on your responsibilities and become a musketeer?"

"Many men keep their own counsel on some things, Your Grace; I dare say you do as well." It was a wild guess and he hoped that he had not overstepped the bounds of respect when he saw the Duke react. "I would beseech you to let me keep my counsel on my past."

Buckingham eyed him more closely, utterly fascinated by this young man who had turned his back on a title and all that it involved when the Englishman had garnered prestigious advancement for a decade or more. He was the first Duke of Buckingham and intent upon his line continuing for generations; he could not envisage anyone choosing to end a noble line unless ...

"Could you confer your title upon another family member?

Athos shut his eyes to the pain and it did not go unnoticed by the Duke as he answered, "My only other relative, my younger brother, died."

"I am sorry to hear it but there is time for you to marry, have sons. Your line does not have to die out."

Anger flashed across Athos' face at the Duke's persistence. "I am the last of my family. The title will not die out in the future; as far as I am concerned, it has already died along with my wife. I have chosen the life of a soldier, sworn my oath of allegiance to my King and that is all I want to know."

"How old is your family?" Buckingham was spellbound by the younger man who was so honourable in one respect and yet disregarded his heritage so easily.

"Over five hundred years," Athos answered bluntly. "As well as learning military history, my father also made sure that I knew all that was necessary about the family. According to family records and letters, I had an ancestor who fought on the tourney circuit beside the Marshal."

The Duke gave a sharp intake of breath, captivated by this unexpected link with his hero.

"The first family seat was in English-held France until King John lost it in the first years of the 13th century and my family's lands were seized. The loss was compounded when that same ancestor sought to aid John in getting the lands back but King Philip soundly defeated the English and their allies in 1214 at the Battle of Bouvines. A year later, he was helping the French King to aid English barons against John – anything to buy back favour. It was a struggle that would last many years but gradually, the family was restored to the royal court with land and a title conferred following the conflict with Henry V who regained a strong footing in France. We were nearly ousted again when his son, Henry VI, lost the lands to France but thereafter the family found favour. My mother was a lady-in-waiting to Marie de Medici."

It was a long and auspicious history and Buckingham was impressed, not least because the demise of the family name was both calculated and tragic. An uncomfortable silence fell upon the two men.

"What of Lieutenant Savatier?" Athos asked eventually to change the subject.

"He is being held and questioned about his actions," Buckingham said evasively.

"Is that a euphemism for torture?" Athos pushed.

The Duke's face hardened. "Call it what you will but I intend to find out why he did what he did and on whose orders. In the meantime, I have to decide what I am going to do with you."

Their discussion was no longer providing a distraction, instead dredging up too many unhappy memories, and Athos suddenly became aware that he was feeling even worse, sweat breaking out on his brow. He took several deep breaths.

"Your Grace, I beg you to permit me to withdraw somewhere. I really do not feel well," Athos requested very quietly and politely.

Even as the Duke looked at him, any vestige of colour drained from his face. Calling for the man who waited outside, Buckingham indicated another door. "There is an adjoining cabin here where you can rest. I shall send for the ship's surgeon to provide a draught that will help to settle your stomach. It is something he mixes for the crew in rough seas and I have found it efficacious myself on occasions. I am sure that it will help you make a speedy recovery and then, perhaps, we can have dinner together later and talk some more. You must tell me about Paris, Louis and his wonderful Queen."

Athos tried to smile at the invitation but the prospect of food was the last thing on his mind as he was ushered through into the adjoining cabin, the surly man – Athos still had not determined whether or not he was a member of the crew or a servant to the Duke – carrying the bucket.

It was nearly an hour later that a messenger arrived with the draught and left it with Buckingham who declared that he would take it to his guest himself, for he found it hard to look upon the Frenchman as a prisoner given what he had done. He had smiled sympathetically when, through the closed door, he had heard the musketeer being sick several times and then it had gone quiet.

Standing in the open doorway now, the cup containing the draught in his hand, George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, gazed at the sight before him and his breath caught.

The young musketeer was lying on his side facing the door with the bucket within easy reach; the stale, cloying smell of sickness pervaded the windowless room and a lantern swung gently from a ceiling hook, an unfortunate reminder to the Frenchman of the ship's constant movement had he been awake.

His skin was pale, despite the summer's sun that had punctuated the periods of storm and rain, and a thin veil of sweat gave it an unnatural sheen. Buckingham let his eyes roam over the vulnerable figure that lay before him and thought back to his first sight of the younger man when he had entered the tent on the island. Long-limbed, he was tall and slender, allowing his movements to be elegant and graceful. Now, one hand lay on the pillow, close to his head, whilst the other hung over the side of the bunk; long fingers uncurled, their tips and the palm calloused from his work. Unruly, dark, damp hair curled about his cheeks and ridiculously long lashes laced his skin. His beard and moustache were in sore need of trimming, the latter almost concealing a small scar on his upper lip. He had slipped off his boots and doublet and untucked his shirt before stretching out on the bunk, the voluminous material failing to disguise his muscular frame.

Buckingham felt his breath hitch again, his heart raced and he suppressed a moan as he realised that the young musketeer was painfully, fascinatingly and utterly beautiful.

 _ **A/N**_

" _ **Vasa vana plurimum sonant." Just one of several translations I found for "Empty vessels make the most sound." It's nowhere near what my Latin teacher used to say to the class when she entered!**_

 _ **I don't know about Buckingham but William Marshal (1146/7-1219) is my absolute historical hero. Undeniably 'the Greatest Knight'; he was held to ransom at the age of five by King Stephen; the younger son, he grew up landless but forged an incredible reputation in the tourneys of France and during various battles; he was a favourite of Eleanor of Aquitaine and, in turn, served the Young King Henry (crowned III during his father's lifetime as in the medieval French custom but predeceased him), Henry II, Richard I (the Lionheart), King John and was regent to Henry III. Jealous knights tried to destroy his reputation by accusing him of adultery with Queen Marguerite, wife of Young King Henry but it was unfounded. He was incredibly loyal to his sovereign whether he agreed with him or not; once his oath was given, he couldn't/wouldn't break it. In his early forties, he married Isobel when she was in her teens. She bore him ten children, all of whom survived (incredible in those days) and married well. He gained land through the marriage and, amongst his titles, was the first Earl of Pembroke. If I recall correctly, he was fighting at the siege of Lincoln when in his early 70s! A devout Christian, he renounced his marriage on his deathbed as he had wanted all his life to become a Knight Templar (and they were not married.) He is buried in Temple Church in London, his two eldest sons buried either side of him and it is their effigies in the floor of the circular church that are seen in the film 'The Da Vinci Code.' Sorry, I could wax lyrical about him forever; he is SO honourable and fascinating.**_

 _ **It's in one of the later volumes of the d'Artagnan romances that Dumas has Athos say that his mother was a lady-in-waiting to Louis' mother. The rest of the d'Athos family history is my fabrication.**_


	44. Chapter 44

**_Thank you all for your comments on the previous chapter. I hereby give metaphorical medals to the two of you who, in five days, have read the whole lot so far at one go! I think, and hope, that I have contacted all that I can via private message but would, if you don't mind, like to take a moment to respond to guest 'Liz' whom I was unable to reach by private message._**

 ** _Thank you, Liz, for your comment and the compliment regarding my writing in general. I am sorry, however, that I have disappointed you regarding the plot; that is your opinion, which you are wholeheartedly entitled to express and I appreciate your honesty. I admit that I am still on a steep learning curve when it comes to writing, pacing et cetera and am more than willing to reflect upon that._**

 ** _As to plot, please let me explain. This story was always going to be one in three sections: Paris 1631, Ré 1627 and back to Paris, and the middle section, where we are now, was always going to be the longest, arising as it did from a comment in 'Renegade'. This middle section is integral to what is happening in Paris four years later – all will be revealed in the third part. Yes the story is long, novel-length like 'Renegade'. Short story writing is a skill in itself and there are others on the site far more skilled at it than I am, although I 'practice' occasionally with the set challenges. Perhaps, in retrospect, the middle section should have been a story in itself, of their adventures solely on Ré but then, of course, d'Artagnan would not appear at all. There are other stories out there that are set before he joins the Musketeers._**

 ** _Also, I make no apology for the history that is used (there is far more that I have omitted.) This was always intended as a 'historical novel' but I had hoped that the history supports everything the characters are enduring, giving credence to their experience. The historical notes at the end of a chapter are for the benefit of anyone who would like to read them – they are not mandatory – and who want to see which parts are real and which is my fiction – especially with the nature of some of the points. You know what they say, 'truth is often stranger than fiction.' Perhaps I waxed too lyrical about William Marshal, but there had to be a common ground established between Buckingham and Athos (England and France), the new nobility versus the old, for the Duke to have one of many reasons for potentially releasing the Musketeer. My penchant is for the history: for others, it is AU, a focus on hurt/comfort, diverting from canon, a modern setting, anime and slash. We have our own preferences and, perhaps, even for certain characters. Dumas is reputed to have said that his favourite one of the four was Porthos._**

 ** _Was not Dumas producing a historical novel by_** ** _setting the story in the 17_** ** _th century_** ** _with real historical characters (not least the four musketeers and their captain) and against particular events e.g. the siege of La Rochelle? Did he not alter history for his own ends e.g Milady manipulating John Felton to assassinate Buckingham? Indeed, I thought for many years that his writing about an affair between Anne and Buckingham was wholly fictional until I researched and found that, although there was not an actual affair, the Duke thought more of the French Queen than he should have done, hence the fact that I referred to it. If I have been a little 'heavy-handed' with the way in which I have used any of the history as a result, then I again apologise to you and any who share your opinion._**

 ** _My story is intentionally layered with main and different sub-plots (all carefully plotted beforehand.) Perhaps I have not handled them as well as I could have and I will reflect upon that too because, as I said, I am on a learning curve. But aren't events on Ré a plot? Isn't Savatier and all that has happened with Delacroix, Plourde and Allard a plot? Aren't elements like fighting the English, being erroneously accused of murder, taken captive et cetera all adventures and part of the plotline?_**

 ** _Rest assured, the story WILL return to the Paris of 1631, the murders and d'Artagnan – just not yet. I hope that you will stick with it to the end and reiterate that I am sorry that it disappoints you at this juncture._**

 ** _V_**

CHAPTER 44

The screaming awoke Athos.

Disorientated from having been in a deep sleep and instinctively unnerved by the sound, he jolted upright, narrowly avoiding hitting his head on the low ceiling above him. The noise was born of excruciating agony and prolonged suffering; it had the tone of utter despair, undeniable fear and the bleak desire for death as the only means of escape. It was the anguish and hopelessness of a broken man and, as another long drawn-out, choking cry boiled up from the bowels of the vessel, Athos felt the chill of recognition.

It was Savatier!

Simultaneously, he was aware of being watched and saw the Duke standing in the doorway, leaning casually against the doorframe, his very posture suggesting that he had not just happened there. Unsettled by the thought that he had been scrutinised whilst asleep, and thereby at his most vulnerable, he cleared his throat and tried to block out the sound of another scream that emanated through the woodwork.

"I have brought you this draught and hope it will help." The Duke pushed himself up and away from the door and moved towards Athos, holding out the medicine.

Athos swung his legs over the side of the bunk and took the proffered cup. He dared not study its contents but muttered his reluctant appreciation before taking a sip. Immediately his eyes widened with pleasant surprise and he took a larger mouthful. "A close friend makes a range of draughts and, sadly, I have yet to taste one that is palatable, unlike this one!" He was glad of the opportunity to open a safe topic of conversation.

"I will see to it that you have the instructions from the ship's surgeon," Buckingham offered, his eyes never straying from the musketeer's face.

Embarrassed, Athos concentrated upon the cup and downed its contents in one. The words were not lost on him and he wondered if he dare hope that he was going to be released and on what grounds.

Another scream rent the air and made him wince. "The Lieutenant?" He could not bring himself to phrase a complete question.

Buckingham's features hardened, the disarmingly friendly overtures of earlier noticeably non-existent. "He is being encouraged to give us the information that we require."

That was, without doubt, a euphemism for torture and, realising the changeability of the nobleman, Athos' brief optimism shattered. He had entered the English camp with Savatier. Would the Duke believe his innocence in the assassination attempt or was the Duke playing some subtle psychological game, trying to elicit unguarded revelations from the young Frenchman? Immediately, Athos was on his guard, unwilling and unlikely to accept anything at face value from the Englishman. His continued disquiet was not about to abate when Buckingham spoke again.

"I will send a man with hot water and some clean clothes and then you will join me for dinner. Perhaps you play a little chess; we might entertain ourselves with the challenge after we have eaten."

The Duke did not wait for a reply but turned on his heels and was gone and Athos was left feeling that the invitation had actually been couched in a command that he was not at liberty to refuse.

It was about forty minutes later that he emerged from the side cabin into the main one, having washed in glorious hot water – a welcome change from the cold that was available within the Citadel – and used the brush that had also been provided to rake some order into his thick, unruly hair. A complete set of clothing had been laid out for him and he had no doubt that they would have been a reasonable fit, for he was only a little taller than the Englishman but of a slighter frame. Still, he made the conscious decision that he would not be dictated to entirely; nor would he be stripped of that which marked him out as a musketeer so he only put on the clean shirt, grateful for the softness of the fabric and marking that it had been a long time since he had worn anything of such excellent quality. Looking at the finely cut velvet breeches, coloured hose and fancy doublet with its slashed sleeves and exquisite embroidery that lay on the bunk, he had a notion of Buckingham's game. He was deliberately being reminded of all that he had given up for the life of the common soldier; Buckingham could not and would not ever understand his choice and he, likewise, would never be turned from it. With a damp cloth, he wiped at the leather of the doublet that was his musketeer uniform and donned it, immediately satisfied and reassured by its familiarity, especially when he ran his fingers over the pauldron that signified his commissioning into the King's regiment.

When he appeared from the adjoining cabin, it was in the garb of the musketeer, although minus his hat and weapons belts, and wearing the different shirt. The refusal to use what had been offered did not go unnoticed by the Duke, who narrowed his eyes in momentary displeasure at not seeing the handsome young man adorned in the raiment he had provided but the annoyance rapidly disappeared to be replaced by a smile of greeting and gesture towards the table that was set for dinner.

Athos groaned inwardly when he saw the heavily laden table that suggested a full scale banquet was about to commence rather than the actual meal for just two men; there was far too much food for the pair of them. An array of the finest silver displayed a variety of freshly cooked meats, rich sauces and steaming vegetables to be followed by a range of fruit tartlets and shaped sugar confections; the combined aroma of all was designed to whet the appetite and demonstrate no shortcomings in the Duke's hospitality. The smells, though, did nothing more than curdle Athos' stomach; firstly in the aftermath of his seasickness and, secondly, when he felt sure that the vast majority of the Duke's men did not have the opportunity to partake of such a lavish menu.

"Sit, sit," ordered the Duke as he took his place at the head of the table and indicated that Athos should take the seat to the right.

Although the musketeer was the only company and could quite easily have sat opposite the Englishman, he was certain another element of the psychological game was in play in that he was expected to take the place of highest honour for a guest. A crisp, linen napkin was unfolded on his behalf and the Duke leaned forward to lay it across his lap. Athos' cheeks burned at the unnecessary gesture; he had been raised fully cognisant in the use of all accoutrements of the dining table.

"Do help yourself," Buckingham encouraged and, when Athos selected only a little of what he considered the plainest the table had to offer, the Duke seized a dish and began spooning a mound onto the musketeer's plate. "You have not taken enough to keep a sparrow alive."

Athos raised his hands in an attempt to defer the Duke's efforts. "Forgive me. Much has gone into the preparation here but I am afraid my stomach remains too unsettled for the richer dishes, Your Grace." He wanted to say more but thought better of it although the Duke reached a conclusion of his own.

"And I expect you are not used to such bounty within the besieged Citadel," the Duke said, making conversation as he served himself generously.

The corners of Athos' mouth twitched as he suppressed a knowledgeable smile. "I hope that you do not expect me to comment upon that, Your Grace. I am hardly going to make the mistake of revealing to you the state of our supplies that might give any indication as to how soon we would be starving or ready to capitulate to you."

Buckingham laughed. "You are an astute man, Athos. I see that my attempt at subtlety is not lost on you. How old are you?"

The sudden change in topic was unexpected and the Frenchman hesitated as he dwelt on whether or not there was an underlying reason for the question. Eventually, he deemed it safe to reply. "Twenty-seven."

"And how long since you left your estate and entered the service of Louis?"

Athos was feeling that he had already told the Duke far too much about himself. "Two years, slightly more."

"Something must have driven you to make such a drastic change to your life," the Englishman pressed but, when he saw the dip of the head and attention deliberately refocused upon the food, he realised that he had pushed the other man too far and tried to pull back on the error he had made. "Ah but I forget! You have already warned me that there are some things about which you will not speak and that includes what has happened in your past. You certainly are enigmatic."

Athos continued to study the food in front of him but, so far, had not touched it.

"Eat," Buckingham urged and misconstrued Athos' continued reluctance. "You have seen me serve you and myself from the same bowl and using the same utensils. It is not poisoned; my own taster sampled all the dishes before you arrived. Of course, you only have my word for that as you did not witness him doing so. Let me show you," and the Duke tucked into his food with great enthusiasm.

Still Athos did not move.

"And yet you do not trust me," Buckingham said, genuine regret in his voice. "You think only half the dish is contaminated. It is not so and I will prove it to you."

Before Athos could explain that he was only deliberating on what he dare eat without running the risk of seeing it again, Buckingham leaned across with a silver spoon and took some of Athos' food to eat himself. The act, done with an apparently valid reason, was still strangely intimate and intrusive, disquieting Athos even further. Had he been asked to voice his growing misgivings, he would not have been able to find the adequate words.

The Duke chattered on as Athos listened in silence and eventually took small mouthfuls of food whilst the other man held forth about the breadth of supplies he had stored in the bowels of the ship for his own purposes; his personal carriage, horses, footmen and pages that he had brought with him from England and the extensive wardrobe of silk and velvet clothes he had for the evenings – his current change of outfit included – as standards had to be maintained.

Athos listened with enhanced resentment. They were engaged in a war and his host could only speak of the luxuries he had brought with him to make his life as pleasant as possible under the circumstances; there was an arrogant display that was exacerbating his unease. He ate little, his combined misery and growing anger fast taking hold and he struggled to remain civil but knew that it was imperative if he were to stand any chance of being released. At length, the Duke indicated the shelf on which many volumes of varying sizes were displayed and began to talk about his favourite tomes, as diverse as they were in content as they were in bindings. If he had expected to find a crack in Athos' knowledge and general education, then he was to be sorely disappointed. Already able to hold his own in matters of history and military strategy, Athos repeatedly proved himself in his understanding and appreciation of poetry, philosophy and the classics of the ancient world.

During a lull in the conversation, Athos allowed his attention to wander and he gazed around the cabin, taking a more detailed mental note of the extravagant furnishings. In the farthest corner on a small table covered in a lace cloth, two lit candles in heavy silver candlesticks flanked an ornate icon depicting a religious image of a crucified Christ lying in the arms of his grieving mother. He stared even more intently when he realised that the Virgin Mary bore an uncanny resemblance to his own Queen Anne, daughter of one king and wife to another.

"Beautiful, isn't she?" Buckingham asked, smiling as he saw where the Musketeer's eyes had settled. "It was a present from Louis himself when I was last at the court in Paris."

"Beautiful indeed," Athos murmured. He could not fail to have noticed the Duke's use of the word 'she' as opposed to 'it' and he was immediately wary. He had heard the rumours of Buckingham's behaviour at the French court and how inappropriately attentive he had been to the Queen. He wondered at Louis' wisdom at giving the Englishman such a clear likeness of his wife, unless the King intended it to be the salt that was rubbed into the wound of unreturned affection.

With the meal over, the table was cleared by a steward and the chess board set up in readiness for the proposed challenge; its symbolism not lost on Athos. The strategy and concentration required for the game was a vivid representation of a battle scenario and he wondered if that was how the Duke perceived this. Now he had to decide whether he would play to win or to allow Buckingham that privilege, given his rank and the current position in which he found himself.

"You do play?" the Duke queried again.

Athos nodded. "It has been a while, Your Grace, but I doubt that I have forgotten the salient points."

"Another thing you have abandoned? I suppose that there is little call for playing such a superior game amongst your comrades," Buckingham laughed lightly, oblivious to his insensitivity and Athos was reminded once more of the tendency towards such crass traits amongst the nobility. He had heard enough similar comments from his own King to last a lifetime.

Athos wondered at the intention of the insult; his jaw muscles tensed. "On the contrary, Your Grace, there are many men within the garrison who are able to hold their own in a very tactical game of chess."

If the Duke were about to make a reply, it was lost by the arrival of a harpist who took up his position in the corner of the room and began to play, the melodious sound pervading the farthest corners of the room and endeavouring to wash over the men with its soothing tones. For Athos, it just added to the sense of the surreal.

They began to play, long pauses growing ever longer as they both took their time in reviewing the moves each other made and planning ahead.

"Checkmate," the Duke announced, knocking over Athos' King, but there was no victory in his voice, only puzzlement as he gazed shrewdly at the musketeer.

"You are not as out of practice as you would have me believe, Sir. You threw that game, deliberately allowing me to win."

Athos did not consider that any comment from himself was necessary.

"You did that either because I outrank you or you are thinking carefully about your present situation. It is probably both; in which case, I do believe that you are still playing your own little game of chess, trying to outmanoeuvre me. Tell me, Musketeer, what do you hope to achieve?"

"I would hope that you will release me back to the Citadel." Athos was brutally honest and waited to see the reaction his forthrightness elicited.

"And what would I gain? Perhaps, as we both adhere to the notion of chivalry, I could demand a ransom for your return."

Athos shook his head. "If you think you can hold me against my estate, you are sorely mistaken. My neglect of matters there has been such that I doubt much could be raised and I certainly do not believe the King would dip into the crown's coffers to pay for my return."

Buckingham pondered the answer. "If I let you go, you would tell Toiras all that you have discovered."

"And what is that exactly, Your Grace?" Athos shrugged. "You have kept me below deck so that I have seen nothing but that is no matter. We already know how many ships you have here and some of their firepower; we can at least make an educated guess as to the capabilities of other ships given their size. As to the extent of your forces, we know how many men are on the Île de Ré because we have seen the size of your camp, not least with the five hundred or so reinforcements that have recently disembarked."

Buckingham raised an appreciative eyebrow at the summary.

"What other information could I give to the Governor?" Athos went on. " Let us then consider what good I am to you. What would be the benefit of keeping me? You could question me, torture me even, but what more could I tell you that you do not know? You have seen our numbers, fought them, decreased them, and you know we have not had the luxury of reinforcements from the mainland; your blockade has seen to that. What then? How much ammunition do we have left? How much food and water? I fight, I am not a quartermaster privy to such information, but I assure you that I am not yet at the stage where my belly aches with hunger or I catch the rain to slake my thirst. I also have plenty of shot and powder. It is, of course, up to you as to whether or not you believe me. We are besieged by you; you have us at the disadvantage and you know that if you can maintain that siege, you will inevitably starve us out or into surrender." He fell silent and let the Duke absorb his words.

The Duke appraised him with a grudging respect. "You see your position very well, Athos of the King's Musketeers. You assume that I will not just kill you."

"You have had ample opportunity to do that, Your Grace, and you frequently tell me that you are a man of honour and of chivalry. I saved your life," Athos reminded him.

"Indeed you did. I will not forget that," and here the Duke suddenly dismissed the musician with a clap of the hands and an additional order. "Tell my steward that I am ready; he will know what I mean."

The mood of the cabin changed in an instant as the Duke began pacing the floor, tapping hand against hand behind his back as he waited for whatever it was and giving Athos the presentiment that this next part of the proceedings was not going to be so sociable. Perhaps he was about to find out his fate and his mouth went uncomfortably dry at the prospect.

The door opened suddenly, thrown back on its hinges as a dishevelled, bleeding figure was ruthlessly dragged into the cabin by the two men who followed.

Barely able to keep his feet, the newcomer spied Athos through heavily lidded eyes and launched into a tirade of vitriolic insults and obscenities, not least branding him a traitor to France. A well-aimed blow to the side of his head, a barked order for silence and tight grips releasing their supportive hold sent Savatier crashing to his knees, howling in renewed agony as he instinctively tried to save himself on torn and broken hands from falling forwards. His shirt was filthy, blood-stained and shredded and, together with the marks he bore on his face, were witness to the relentless beating and torture he had endured.

Athos felt sick with horror. Admittedly he did not like the Lieutenant, but he would not have him treated like this, reduced to a bloody shadow of the man he had once been.

"Has he told you anything?" the Duke demanded of the men who accompanied him.

"Only that he was working alone; that this other musketeer," and here one of the men indicated Athos, "knew nothing of what he was going to do."

"Hmm," said the Duke, squatting in front of the broken man so that they were at eye level. "That is highly commendable of you to make sure your colleague is not executed beside you. Either there is a scrap of humanity left within your treacherous body or you do not want to share the acclaim you thought would be yours on my death. Did you expect to be hailed a hero with your act? However did you think you were going to make good your escape? Perhaps you thought you would be heralded as a martyr. No matter, there is only one thing in which I am interested and you know what that is."

Savatier knelt on the floor, blood dripping from his various injuries and pooling before him. His chest heaved as if breathing had suddenly become an impossibly painful pastime but his eyes, filled with disdain and hatred, were fixed upon the Englishman.

"You will tell me who put you up to this. Who gave you the order for my assassination? I tell you now, the pain you have already suffered will be as nothing compared to what will come to you if you do not answer; I have only to give the word to my men here. How can I put this to make you understand? They are experts in their field of finding out information." Buckingham's voice had dropped menacingly, bearing no trace of the foppish enthusiasm Athos had heard at various times during the evening and his eyes were cold.

"Tell me what I want to know," he persisted, "and I give you my word that I will spare your life."

 ** _A/N_**

 ** _Amongst other things, Buckingham took goats, chickens, oxen and cows for his own sustenance. His men were suffering on considerably poorer rations. The other luxuries mentioned all accompanied him._**

 ** _The gift of the icon from Louis was a little confusing but suggested that it resembled Anne; the description of the detail, however, is all mine._**

 ** _So, will Savatier tell the Duke what he wants to know? What will happen to him? Will Buckingham release Athos? All will be revealed in the next chapter._**


	45. Chapter 45

**_A long chapter today as a 'thank you' to all of you for your continued support and encouragement but I would like to dedicate this in particular to Newbeginnings who celebrates her birthday today. Many happy returns of the day!_**

 ** _Apologies for any strangeness or typos that might occur - they all (sadly) belong to me and my errant fingers!_**

CHAPTER 45

I

Early evening light filtered through the grimy windows of the corridor that ran past the Governor's office. Two stony-faced musketeers stood on guard outside the door whilst a further two, faces lined with worry, paced the stone floor, passing each other repeatedly and occasionally punctuating their strides with sighs and eyes darting to the closed door as the raised, angry voices within the room continued.

"The Captain is pushing his luck," Aramis whispered as he and Porthos passed each other, shoulder to shoulder. They moved on and turned.

"Yeah? Well I'm glad he's tellin' the Governor exactly what he thinks about his fool notion to send a letter to Buckin'am," Porthos hissed as they passed each other again.

"It's not going to help him if he alienates Toiras," Aramis said on their next pass.

"Whatever he does or says, it's not goin' to 'elp Athos right now, is it?" Porthos insisted, blocking his friend's path.

They were standing virtually toe to toe when the door to the Governor's office opened; Tréville appeared and slammed the door shut behind him in undisguised fury.

"You are making an uncomfortable habit of waiting for me, gentlemen," he growled when he saw the two musketeers approaching him. He strode down the corridor away from them but was not surprised when he heard their booted footsteps follow in his wake.

"Yeah? Well you tell Athos to stop his uncomfortable habit of gettin' himself into trouble then," Porthos muttered just loudly enough for his Captain to hear him.

Tréville rounded on him. "Not here," he ordered. "In my office."

The three made their way in tense silence to the room on the ground floor used by the officer and Tréville wryly noted that Porthos, in his frustration, slammed the door shut with the same gusto with which he had closed the Governor's. Tempers needed to cool but there was little chance of that if the expression on Porthos' face was anything to go by. It was a sign that Tréville knew well the men under his command that he had removed the pair to a private place where the door was soundly shut and the big man, quite understandably, could give vent to his intense worry and undisguised anger.

"So what's the news on Savatier and Athos?" Porthos was firing questions before Tréville had managed to lower himself into his chair. "Where are they? Has the Governor heard anythin' about 'em? What's Buckin'am doin' with 'em? What's the Governor intendin' to do now?" He broke off only because Aramis had laid a hand on his arm to attract his attention and giving him time to draw breath. Sighing heavily, he looked at Tréville with expectation.

"Toiras has heard nothing. They were seen entering the camp …" Tréville began.

"We know that, we watched 'em," Porthos interrupted.

"Hush," Aramis warned. "Let the Captain carry on."

Porthos shrugged an apology and gestured with his hand for the officer to continue.

"Thank you," Tréville said pointedly, his tone letting Porthos know in no uncertain terms that his outburst was not appreciated. "I do not like this anymore that you two and, within these four walls, I'm telling you now that I was not in favour of this foolhardy errand. Suffice it to say, nothing has been heard from the English camp. Now, that might be easily explained given the nature of Toiras' request."

The two younger men looked at him, eyebrows raised questioningly but both had the common sense to remain quiet. Tréville let out the breath he was holding in a long, noisy exhalation, as if steeling himself to be the harbinger of bad news.

"Pat of Toiras' letter was a request for melons." He quickly held up his hand, palm outwards, to stay their immediate surprise and objections. "It is possible that the request is taking time to honour and that they are staying in the English camp until given leave to return to us with the items."

"It's more likely the Duke thought we were mocking him and has strung them both up," Aramis said, concerned etched deep on his features.

"I can think of a better way of puttin' it than mockin'," Porthos snapped.

"I've no doubt you can," Tréville responded, "but that doesn't help us now or our men."

"Supposin' one of 'our men' has gone an' done exactly what we feared; sold us out and Athos too?"

Porthos was dangerously close to crossing the bounds of insubordination with his tone but Tréville found he could not chastise the man, desperately troubled as he so obviously was for the wellbeing of his friend, for had he not used a similar argument and tone with Toiras himself?

"I cannot help but think that if Savatier has gone to the English, we would from Buckingham sooner or later of this particular coup; it is something he would definitely want to brag about and if he had taken another Frenchman captive, he would be telling us that also," Tréville reasoned.

"Would they be tellin' us if Athos was dead?" Porthos demanded, his eyes blazing.

The Captain studied the two men before him and knew that he did not have all the answers, nor could he lie to give them false hope; they were soldiers who knew of the risks. "I do not know. All the governor will say is that if they have not come back by midday tomorrow, he will send another messenger inquiring after them."

"Then you'd better make sure that messenger is me," the big man declared.

Aramis shook his head. "If you're going, I'm going too. It is in our favour, surely, that we have already met the Duke."

"I'm sorry, Aramis, but the Governor is quite clear upon that. It will be one man only; he is not prepared to expend anymore."

"Me it is then," Porthos said, satisfied at last that he was going to be allowed to do something constructive.

Aramis was not so convinced though. "Remember, my friend, that you are only going there to make diplomatic inquiries; you will only be one man in the midst of thousands of English. You cannot take them all on with the intention of saving Athos and the Lieutenant."

"You're wrong there," Porthos said, the glower leaving his face to be replaced by a broad grin. Aramis was about to protest when his friend went on, "I'm not goin' there to rescue Savatier. I'm goin' to get Athos."

Tréville groaned at the incorrigible spirit of the man and held his head in his hands as visions of Porthos fighting the enemy singlehanded and wielding his weapons with his inimitable roar came thick and fast.

II

In the end, Tréville did not have to insist with Toiras that Porthos be used as the messenger, Aramis did not have to worry about letting the second of his best friends out of his sight and Porthos did not have to plan how he was going to take on the English unassisted if the situation arose.

Midmorning of the next day found the two comrades sitting in the courtyard, Porthos cleaning and sharpening his weapons whilst Aramis looked on nervously, mentally sending up a prayer heavenward that Porthos would not do anything too reckless; it was too much to ask that he would behave himself entirely. They had not exchanged any words for several minutes when a musketeer on the battlements shouted their names. As they looked upwards, squinting into the sun and searching for the man who had frantically summoned them, they espied their colleague pointing down outside the wall in the direction of the main gate. He was still shouting.

"What's he sayin'?" Porthos asked, unable to determine the rest of the message but Aramis, having understood it, was already on his feet with a gasp of incredulity.

"Athos! He says it's Athos!" and he was off, heading towards the barred entrance.

"Get Tréville!" Porthos ordered another man as he ran in pursuit of his brother. He well knew that the gate would not be opened except on the command of one of the highest ranking officers within the Citadel.

Although it seemed longer, it was mere minutes before Tréville stood beside them and the huge gates were hauled open to reveal Athos with three English soldiers standing behind him, each carrying a box. As that point, they put down their burdens, raised their hands to indicate that they were unarmed, said something unintelligible to the lone musketeer and backed off slowly for a number of paces before turning on their heels and setting off at a run back to their camp.

Athos stood watching them go until he was distracted when he was caught up in a breath-defying bear hug by Porthos and almost deafened by the simultaneous bellow of delight in his ear. Several overly hearty slaps between his shoulder blades heralded the arrival of Aramis and he groaned aloud at their enthusiastic welcome.

Alarmed, the marksman desisted and Porthos hurriedly set him back on his feet, anxious that he had aggravated some unseen injury.

"You're not hurt, are you?" Aramis promptly asked, his eyes rapidly appraising his friend for any cause of pain.

"No," Athos said wearily, dipping his head in brief greeting as the Captain approached. The older man hung back, not wanting to encroach upon the ebullient welcome of his brothers, but the relief was obvious in the older man's eyes. "But I have just come in a rowing boat from the Duke's flagship." He seemed to expect that comment to explain everything and it was a moment before realisation dawned and Porthos gave a guffaw of amusement.

"And how many times were you sick then?" he continued to laugh.

Athos sighed; it was a sound of long suffering. "Only the once but I lost count yesterday."

If he had expected any sympathy from his two brothers, then he was very much mistaken. Their relief that he was safely returned to them was palpable and the cumulative effect of that, their joy and his tale of woe pushed them to the edge of hysterical laughter. It was Tréville's next question that restored a note of sobriety.

"Where is Savatier?" he asked quietly.

Athos turned troubled eyes on him and he knew that Porthos and Aramis were staring at him intently. He swallowed hard and his voice suddenly caught. "That is a long story."

Unexpectedly, Tréville stepped forward, edging Porthos out of the way as, sensing that something was seriously amiss, he slid an arm around Athos' shoulders and began guiding him back through the gates and into the sanctuary afforded by the Citadel. "Then we will repair to the Governor's office immediately where you can make your report with the one telling."

As officer and musketeer moved off, Porthos and Aramis shared a bemused look.

"And if you two want to hear what has happened, then I suggest that you pick up those boxes and bring them with you," Tréville ordered without even turning his head.

III

They had not expected to be allowed to stay in order to hear Athos' account of what had happened when he and Savatier had set off to the enemy camp with the letter but Tréville interceded on their behalf. Toiras had already come to understand and respect the ties that bound together the three men and appreciated their extreme concern for their brother and, he began to suspect correctly, with their Captain, if the nature of the exchange he had had the previous day with Tréville were anything to go by. They were, therefore, permitted to remain on the proviso that they did not interrupt, were not allowed to make any comments until given leave and were not to ask any questions.

In a glaring omission of protocol, Toiras bade them all sit and sent a steward to bring refreshments for he suspected, correctly, that it was not about to be a short report and that some deliberation was likely to follow. Given the altercation he had had with the Governor the preceding day, Tréville was developing a new-found but far from grudging respect for the man in his tolerance of the three friends being together as Athos prepared to give the details of all that had transpired.

Whatever any of them anticipated hearing, it certainly did not involve Savatier's attempted assassination of Buckingham and Athos' words rendered the officers temporarily speechless. As they found their voices, so too did Aramis and Porthos, who were unable to curtail their reactions and promptly forgot the conditions that had been established for them to stay. Surprisingly, no-one seemed to mind and a rebuke was not forthcoming either then or when Athos explained that the lieutenant had been tortured by the English to divulge information.

"And do you know if they broke him?" Toiras asked.

Athos hesitated. "Yes they did. They continued with their methods all through the night."

"How do you know?" the Governor pressed.

"Because I could hear him screaming," Athos answered, his voice low and devoid of expression. "The Duke had taken great pains to ensure that the questioning was being done on the deck immediately below the cabin where I was so that I could not miss what was happening. This morning, he told me what he had discovered so that I could pass the information back to you." He was addressing the Governor. "He wants you to know what he has learned. Apparently, the instructions to Savatier came from two French agents in London."

There was a stunned silence as both Toiras and Tréville absorbed the news.

"But they would not have been the masters of such a plan," Toiras said eventually. "Who could have instructed them? Louis would not have given such an order for Buckingham is too close to the English King. It beggars belief what the fallout of that would be if the instigation of such an attack were to be traced back to him."

"But it could have come from Richelieu," Tréville dared to suggest. "He has no liking for the Duke; that is common knowledge. He tolerates him only because of how close he is to Louis' brother-in-law."

All the men ruminated on the suggestion and, at length, the Governor had to admit that the idea was plausible.

"But how could they anticipate or expect Savatier to suddenly have the opportunity?" Aramis ventured to ask.

"Perhaps they didn't; perhaps Savatier is one of several primed for such an act," Athos volunteered.

"It's something we may never know," Tréville said regretfully, quite unable to link this news with the man he had known and trusted. "So what has happened to him after his failed attempt?"

Athos took a deep breath. "The Duke swore clemency; that if Savatier told him what he wanted to know, he would spare his life."

"What?" Porthos was brimming with suppressed rage.

"And has he?" Toiras went on. "Spared his life, I mean?"

"The Duke is a man who believes strongly in honour and integrity. That is the promise he made and he told me that he would release Savatier before the day is out; I have no reason to disbelieve him."

"What would he do? Where would he go?" Toiras looked around at the men gathered there for ideas as to what the disgraced musketeer might do.

"He had better not think about returning to the Citadel," Tréville announced grimly. "As far as I am concerned, he has lost his commission with immediate effect. I know that I should refer this to the King for it to be revoked but the situation demands that that is not possible for now."

Their conversation continued as they speculated on where they thought Savatier might go. Toiras decided that they could not relax their guard and they needed to be on alert for Savatier attempting to infiltrate his way into the Citadel again.

"But what would he hope to achieve even if he managed to regain entry?" Tréville wondered aloud.

Toiras held wide his hands in a gesture of frustration. "I am not sure. You said yourself that your working relationship with him had become very strange of late because of a multitude of reasons, not least because of your men," and he indicated the three _Inseparables_ with an expansive sweep of a hand. "Now he has had his assassination attempt thwarted by Athos, whom he had already threatened. I think he would find any way possible to be a thorn in our sides here."

"We are assuming far too many things here," Tréville pointed out guardedly. "Firstly, we are assuming that he is currently alive and will survive what he has undergone during the torture. Then we are assuming that Buckingham will spare his life and that it is not just a ruse to make Athos think and report that. Thirdly we are assuming that, if released, the Duke will return him to the island as opposed to the mainland; he might take him and abandon him as far away from here as possible. He surely would not want him to be in the vicinity still to afford him the opportunity of making another attempt on the Duke's life and lastly, we are assuming he will want to get back in here to wreak some sort of revenge. It all sounds highly questionable and somewhat suicidal."

When they had exhausted all possibilities and had placated Toiras by assuring him there would be no diminution of duties, the Governor turned his attention to the three wooden boxes that Athos had brought with him, his enthusiasm restored and his delight more than evident when he prised them open to discover twelve freshly harvested melons.

"Wonderful!" he exclaimed, clapping his hands together in glee in the manner of a small child. He reached into a box and retrieved one of the large, beautiful fruits before handing it over to Tréville. "Here, Captain. You must have one of these; I'm sure you'll want to share it with your men here."

It was just as well that he was far too excited by the Duke's gift to notice either their reactions or subsequent expressions, otherwise he might have demanded the return of the melon.

Instead, their faces fell at his next pronouncement. "Well, now that I am assured that we have opened proper lines of communication with the English, it is incumbent upon me to reciprocate with a gift or two from France and I know just the things." He turned, beaming broadly towards the musketeers at the prospect of his munificence. "Tréville, I am sure your men won't mind taking a gift back to the Duke of Buckingham in a day or two!"

IV

Treville spotted Athos sitting alone, back towards him, on a stone bench. He was absorbed in something and Treville, after first looking around to see if the other two _Inseparables_ were in the vicinity, decided to approach and tackle the subject that was uppermost in his mind in the twenty-four hours since Athos had returned, although he had yet to decide how he was going to broach the matter.

As he came into Athos' peripheral vision, he cleared his throat and the younger man broke off cleaning his pistol. He was ready to leap to his feet but Treville stopped him with a hand on the shoulder.

"Stay seated," he instructed. "Mind if I join you?"

The request was unexpected and Athos pushed his cleaning materials aside and edged along the bench to allow Treville room to sit beside him.

"You are without your shadows," Treville said as an opener and smiled, indicating that no slight was intended when Athos eyed him warily.

The corners of Athos' mouth twitched. "I managed to persuade them that I would not disappear into the air. Porthos, I believe, is on the search for food but I suspect that he will be unsuccessful. Aramis, on the other hand, is sleeping over there," and he indicated a recumbent figure about fifteen metres away, unmoving in the shade provided by the wall.

"I did not think that one or the other of them would have gone very far," Treville noted.

"They have remained close since my return."

Tréville could not tell from the intonation whether or not Athos found their vigilance a blessing or a curse. "They were beside themselves with worry for you; you do know that, don't you?"

Athos picked up the cloth and began folding it neatly "I know it well but, in case I forget it, Porthos reminds me every couple of hours."

A silence descended upon the two men and Treville struggled to think how he could continue his line of inquiry.

"Why did he let you go? Buckingham, that is," he asked eventually.

"I thought I had explained," Athos said, turning intense green eyes on his captain as if trying to bore into his head to ascertain the reason behind the repeated question. "I saved his life."

"Yes, well, perhaps there was another reason." Tréville fell silent, prepared to wait patiently.

Athos' brow furrowed in that familiar way he had when he was structuring an answer in his head before articulating it.

"Savatier and I had gone to the camp under a flag of truce and he violated that when he tried to kill Buckingham. I could not let him do that and the Duke felt that he owed me for such an action," Athos said, repeating what he had told the group gathered in the Governor's office. Now he gave voice to the worry that had been in his mind since he had thrown himself at Savatier. "I cannot apologise enough if that is seen as treasonable to France, given our present circumstances and I will give myself over to you and the Governor if you have decided to punish me."

Tréville could not miss the earnestness in the younger man and his smile was warm and genuine. "There is no sanction, Athos. I would have done exactly what you did had I been in your place. The white flag symbolises much and Savatier was in the wrong. We do not know who gave him the instruction but, had he been successful, I have no doubt that there would have been all out war declared again between France and England. The tenuous peace that we have enjoyed thus far in the past few years would have swiftly ended. It is enough that we struggle to contain the situation at La Rochelle and here on Ré when the English Duke decides, with the approbation of his King, to involve himself with the grievances of the Huguenots. It is probably only that our own King and the Cardinal know that Buckingham is not in favour with the English Parliament that prevents the situation from escalating. You must relax; you have saved us from much worse."

Athos nodded and stared across the open space to where Aramis had not moved.

"Your account to the Governor was succinct, just as a report should be delivered," Tréville continued. He felt the young musketeer stiffen beside him. "But why do I get the feeling that there is so much more that you have left unsaid?"

There was a long pause and the Captain thought that Athos was not going to speak again but then he did.

"I had to bring the news of what Buckingham had decided to do with Savatier and also deliver the melons."

Tréville chuckled. "That you did, much to the Governor's pleasure." He decided to be blunt. "So what else is there that I should know?"

Eventually, Athos reluctantly turned to face him. "I told him who I am, who I was."

Tréville could not hide his surprise for he had not expected this level of openness with the English Duke. "I see," he said at length. "Was there any particular reason why you did that or was it because he recognised certain qualities in you?"

There was no doubt in Tréville's mind that there were certain traits in Athos' manner and speech that marked him out as a nobleman. Athos shrugged and proceeded to explain about all the little things that had aroused the Duke's suspicions and the Captain was satisfied when he realised that he had been correct in his assumption on many counts.

He was still worried, however, that Athos was holding back on something and he had more than a niggling worry about what that might be and he needed to know, one way or the other.

"Apart from being knocked unconscious when you tried to stop Savatier, were you hurt in any other way?" he ventured.

"No," Athos replied, "and when I was seasick, the Duke was most solicitous." He tried not to think of the image of Buckingham lounging in the open doorway to the cabin.

"So there were no other hurts, not of any kind?"

Tréville's persistence was beginning to unnerve Athos as he stressed his answer again. "No. Savatier swore to him that I was innocent of any knowledge of the assassination attempt. There was no need to question me, with or without force."

Tréville took a deep breath as he composed his thoughts and asked very carefully, "You were not expected to buy your freedom in any way?"

Athos still looked confused. "The Duke would love to perpetuate an age of chivalry and knighthood. I told him that he would get nowhere by holding me to ransom. I was highly unlikely to raise sufficient funds from my estate and the king would not pay for my release."

Tréville sighed; there was no avoiding the direct approach now. "I worry that you are being deliberately obtuse." The only reaction he got from the younger man was hurt puzzlement. "Have you not heard the rumours of the French court regarding Buckingham?"

"I heard that the women flocked around him like moths to the flame and that he supposedly had more than an appropriate fancy for the Queen." Athos was thinking back to the icon in Buckingham's cabin.

"Did you not hear of his other proclivities? That he was reputed to have had a relationship with the current English King's father?"

Tréville watched Athos closely as he absorbed the words and mulled them over and the Captain knew the moment that realisation dawned from his expression.

"No," Athos insisted, his eyes wide with horror, his breaths shallow and rapid. "No," he repeated and then said the word over and over again, interspersed with, "I never …. He never….. No, it's not ….."

It was when he turned stricken green eyes to Tréville, his distress tangible, that the Captain's incipient relief metamorphosed once more into fear.

"There were things …." Athos' voice trailed off. "I felt so uncomfortable at times and I didn't know why." He thought of the times when Buckingham's actions had been invasive such as the napkin in the lap; a touch on the arm that now became overtly intimate; the smiles, the gestures, being watched as he slept, the offer of the clothing …..

He suddenly could not breathe and the courtyard swam before his eyes.

"Breathe, Athos, breathe. Put your head down."

Tréville was issuing a string of instructions which he heard but with which he could not seem to comply. He felt the Captain trying to manipulate his unresponsive body before he collapsed completely and then there was Aramis at his other side, demanding to know what had happened. His mind raced as he wanted to beg Tréville not to say anything, not to explain; he wanted to assert that he was fine, that nothing had happened, but then his imagination kicked in and he wondered the worst scenarios. Just the mere thought of Buckingham's unwanted attention, of what might have been and that Tréville had felt it necessary to ask if he had been harmed made him feel a helpless victim, unclean through no fault of his own and more than a little sick at the thought of what he had escaped.

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **Buckingham did send back twelve melons apparently and Toiras sent a return gift.**_

 _ **Buckingham did promise his French would-be assassin that he would spare his life in return for information and the order had come from two French agents in London. As to whom their master was, I do not know and it was my idea to suggest Richelieu.**_

 _ **V**_


	46. Chapter 46

_**Okay, there were a few typos in the early part of the last chapter and I apologise for their appearance and for any that creep through in this chapter. I HAVE reread it more than once but I still seem to miss them!**_

 _ **Not sure what happened with this chapter; like Topsy, it grew (hope some of you understand the reference). There was a certain bit that I wanted to get to as you will see at the end. so it is a very long chapter today.**_

 _ **More apologies as I have fallen woefully behind in messaging you all for your fantastic comments over the last couple of chapters. I have loved hearing from you all and I WILL get back to you as soon as possible with regards to your feedback which is always appreciated wholeheartedly.**_

 _ **A special mention to guest Sara though: thank you for your wonderful comment and encouragement. I did not mind it being long at all and I sit here thinking of my new found role as a marinade. Loved it and hope that you might drop in and chat again.**_

 _ **Take care, everyone. I wonder what you'll think of today's offering ...!**_

CHAPTER 46

I

In the cool dimness of Tréville's office, Athos sat sipping at fresh water, the Captain rearranged papers on his desk and Aramis paced restlessly.

"What happened out there? Why did you nearly pass out?" The marksman's concern was tangible.

"Unlike you, sensibly dozing in the shade, Athos sat in the direct sunlight for far too long and without his hat," said Tréville intervening. "How many times have I heard you berate him for such negligence when he is so fair skinned? Also, since his repeated unfortunate escapades with boats, he has obviously not drunk enough fluids; a fact that he needs to correct here and now before he leaves this room. You must have some duties to attend to and we need to finish the discussion we were having when he was overcome by the heat. He was telling me more about the English Duke. It is important that I have as thorough an understanding of our enemy as possible." He said it with a smile but the implication was clear; Aramis was no longer needed and should leave.

"Are you sure that you feel better?" Aramis asked his friend, fully aware that he was being dismissed but still worried nonetheless.

"He will be fine," Tréville insisted before Athos could respond.

He merely nodded, amazed at the ease with which the lie and semi-truth had tripped from the Captain's lips but also relieved that he had not had to forestall Aramis' concerns.

As the door closed on the departing musketeer, Athos knew he had to deal with his embarrassment. "I am sorry for the way I reacted; it was unacceptable."

"Was it?" Tréville countered. "Knowing the Duke's reputation, I needed reassurance that you were unharmed and so I pushed you for an answer. Fortunately, you gave me that for which I hoped. I am not sure how I would have reacted had you said anything to the contrary. However, perhaps it is I who should be doing the apologising given the way I pressed for your response."

Athos took another mouthful of water. "I still find it hard to believe of him and would like to think that I have an overactive imagination so that I have possibly read into his actions that which was not there. I am still not sure about his attraction for me but there was a certain …" He struggled to find the appropriate word.

"Fascination?" the Captain offered and the younger man nodded in agreement. "Never mind. We will let the matter rest there and I will ensure that, should Governor Toiras want any more missives sent to the English camp, you are not the one to go."

Athos took a deep breath and looked up. "There is no need. Should the Governor send me, I will go. Forewarned, as they say, is forearmed." He allowed himself a slight smile to demonstrate that, once more, all was well.

Tréville's concern was alleviated when he saw that the young man had fully recovered from his earlier loss of composure, his extreme reaction indicating that the suggested extent of the Duke's interest had never truly crossed his mind, so that Tréville felt an element of guilt in having raised the notion in the first place, but he felt sure that, unless rendered incapable for some reason, Athos would have put up a strongly defensive fight.

The Captain went to a cupboard and pulled out two pewter cups and a bottle. He poured a large measure of brandy into each before handing one to Athos.

"This is becoming a pattern," Athos said, a sardonic twinkle returning to the green eyes.

"Don't get too used to it," Tréville warned as he settled back in his chair, "but I believe that, under the circumstances, it is more beneficial than mere water."

An easy ambience was restored to the room and the Captain was satisfied when he saw the younger man visibly relax. It was over two years since the musketeer had been commissioned and Tréville was priding himself in having learned to read the moods, expressions and body language of the musketeer seated before him.

Athos always had been - and always would be - a highly complex individual and the Captain had no doubts that there was much of his past that he categorically refused to divulge, but there was also no doubting the fact that he had come a long way from the surly, withdrawn, highly suspicious, wreck of a man who had entered through the garrison archway one day during a thunderstorm and torrential rain. Much of that success was down to the refusal of Aramis and Porthos to accept things when he repeatedly rebutted their overtures of friendship; it was as if they had worn him down with their dogged determination and incomparable zest for life, and for that Tréville was thankful.

He could never pinpoint what it was that he had seen in the drunkard on a self-destruct mission but there were so many times since when he was rewarded and justified in his belief for, once committed to the musketeers, Athos was unwavering in his reliability and fortitude. More than once he had proven himself to be unparalleled in his integrity and sense of honour; so much so, that he rapidly gained the camaraderie and respect of most of the regiment, the exception being, of course, Delacroix and his few companions.

Something had happened in the past that had destroyed Athos' self-esteem; he was bemused by an ever-growing band of musketeers who admired and wished to befriend him, even at a superficial level for they sensibly recognised that they could never infiltrate the protective wall of brotherhood erected around him by Aramis and Porthos. Most of the time, he seemed to accept the jealous bullying that Delacroix callously served him as if it were his just desserts for some distant infraction and that he was somehow deserving of this treatment but, on the rare occasion, he would retaliate, as he had done at La Rochelle. Coupled with his phenomenal skill with a sword, he was a force to be reckoned with; teamed with Aramis and Porthos, they were not just inseparable but also seemingly invincible. Tréville was aware, though, that he could not take that for granted and must not forget that the trio were, when all was said and done, mere mortals.

He thought back to the fall of Savatier, noting that there was now an opening for a lieutenant that needed to be filled. For him, it was an easy decision to make but was it too soon for Athos? Were there still too many rough edges that needed to be smoothed? Had he the ability to stay away from the fiendish drink and thereby still his own inner demons? Could he be convinced that he had an innate sense of leadership that could be nurtured over time? Were the pressures of a siege situation the right time to initiate such sudden and intensive training? Could he expend the time himself to oversee that necessary training? It was the King's prerogative to sanction any permanent promotions but it was Tréville's right to instigate any temporary commands that he saw fit in the field. Perhaps, after all, now _was_ the best and most appropriate time to put Athos to the test, in addition to what he had already done with regards to Savatier.

It was something to which the Captain would give further thought for there were other, older and more seasoned men that could not be ruled out of careful consideration either; men who did not seem to have such a penchant for attracting trouble in the same way that Athos and his two friends did with alarming regularity.

The sound of a throat politely being cleared brought him out of his reverie; Athos was watching him warily.

"You seemed lost in your thoughts there, Sir," he observed.

Tréville shifted in his chair to make himself more comfortable. "I was for a while; I forget myself. So," and he brought the conversation back to a fact-sharing level, "tell me more about what you saw of conditions aboard the Duke's flagship."

II

Toiras sent his gift to Buckingham within forty-eight hours; it constituted half a dozen bottles of fragrant orange-flower water and boxes of Cyprus powder and he decided that the three _Inseparables_ should be afforded the honour of delivering it because, as he put it, they had all met with the Duke now. Tréville raised an objection but the Governor insisted that it could only aid the lines of communication between the armies if the French messengers were to be familiar faces. The Captain tried to stand his ground, saying that it was inadvisable for Athos to be included in the group. The errand did not require either the time or talents of three of his best men and, given the circumstances surrounding Athos' first foray into the English camp with Savatier, it was, perhaps, inadvisable.

"Nonsense," Toiras said jovially, for he was far too preoccupied with the prospect of sending the gift to be anything less than amiable. "What else have they to do here? Men of their ability must be finding their duties monotonous. I am sure they would relish the opportunity to venture further afield, even if it is briefly to the enemy camp."

He beamed beatifically in the direction of the young men who stood stiffly to attention, eyes fixed firmly on the wall above the Governor's head, faces impassive.

"I still think Athos should remain here because …" Tréville began again.

Athos turned in alarm to his Captain, a flush of embarrassment colouring his cheeks because he did not want Tréville to persist and thereby arousing the suspicions of the Governor or, worse still, in his two friends.

"Captain, forgive me if I speak out of turn but I am quite willing to return with Aramis and Porthos. There is nothing about my first encounter with the Duke that could dissuade me." He held Tréville's gaze for several moments almost in a defiant challenge until the officer responded with an almost imperceptible nod.

"Excellent!" Toiras interjected. "Spoken by a true musketeer! At least we can trust these three, eh, Tréville? I mean, they're not likely to run amok with the English, are they?" He laughed as if at a shared joke, the other men giving lukewarm smiles by way of reply.

It was a little while later, when the three friends were dipping old bread into a watery soup to soften it, that Porthos frowned and voiced his curiosity.

"Tréville didn't seem to want you to go back to the English camp."

Athos gave a small shrug, adopting an air of nonchalance. "Perhaps he is concerned that Buckingham is not totally convinced of my innocence in Savatier's failed attack so he does not want to aggravate relations with the English." He carried on eating, a deliberate ploy that enabled him to avoid eye contact with the others, although he knew they had stopped eating and were probably exchanging questioning glances, as was their wont.

"As long as that's all it is," Aramis said, his tone indicating that he was totally unimpressed with the explanation. "I trust that you are not holding back anything. I mean, I assume that you weren't hurt whilst you were there. It was nearly twenty-four hours that you were held by them."

Athos gave a huff of mock annoyance. "Now you are beginning to sound like Tréville. I will tell you exactly what I told him when he asked. I was not hurt, quite the opposite in fact. The Duke was a gentleman who treated me well. Now eat, we have to deliver some gifts this afternoon."

The visit passed without incident. Indeed, they were becoming such a familiar sight riding from the Citadel towards the camp that they were met with acknowledging nods by a few of the English who lined their route and such a warm smile of greeting from the officer with the bad accent, that it was as if they were old friends coming together after an unfortunate absence.

Athos stood in Buckingham's command tent flanked by his brothers. Although thankful for their reassuring presence, he was on his guard and his expression was a resolute mask of cold formality, despite the Duke's best efforts in affably trying to draw him out. Aramis flashed his most charming of smiles and Porthos attempted to give a less thunderous look, but this only succeeded in making him appear more wild, so that the other Englishmen, a higher number in evidence than previously for obvious reasons, eyed him warily throughout the exchange.

It was embarrassingly obvious to Athos that Buckingham directed all comments to him as if they were the only two in the tent and never shifted his gaze from the Frenchman's face. Athos straightened his back, lifted his head and met the stare without wavering, his face inscrutable. The impasse did not go unnoticed by Aramis and Porthos and, whilst they refrained from saying anything to him, the ride back to the Citadel was conducted in an uncomfortable silence. He led the way but could feel their eyes - and their unasked questions – boring into his back.

Perhaps it had been unwise to insist that he could make this return visit for, whilst he had mentally prepared himself in readiness at seeing Buckingham again, he was convinced that he wanted to prove that the Duke's attraction for him was a figment of Tréville's imagination. Now he knew, without doubt, that the Captain's supposition was correct and all he could feel were the conflicting waves of utter humiliation and an all-consuming anger so that he wondered how – if at all – he could avoid the searching inquiries of his curious companions.

III

The days passed into weeks and there was little change in the state of the siege. The weather was no friend to either side, with scorching temperatures and high humidity one day, putting a stress on valuable water supplies and leaving the men lethargic, whilst the next would see the arrival of towering storm clouds, ear-splitting cracks of thunder and torrential rain. It turned the English trenches to water-filled ditches, causing sides to collapse and threatening men's lives whilst the camp became a quagmire, soldiers using their reserves of strength to pull themselves free of the cloying mud and rescuing boots stuck fast as they tried to journey a few paces. Laden carts were trapped and horses whickered their objections as they strained exhausted muscles to pull wheels free, aided by a number of men who would put their weight to the rough, wooden wagons, only to go sprawling full length in the mire when the vehicle broke free without warning.

The French might have been amused from their vantage points along the battlements were conditions not equally depressing for them. They stood their watches, shivering in the cold and wet, cloaks of little use and saturated by the relentless rain so that they were incredibly heavy, the wool giving off a rank odour later as soldiers hung them up in any available spot in a vain attempt to dry them out before the next duty. The boots of many were wearing thin, holes allowing the moisture to permeate the leather so that feet were quickly soaked and chilled until the men thought they would never be dry and warm again. The water collected, unable to drain away, where the dirt of the courtyards had been compacted by the frequent passage of men. The result was deep pools of foetid water as the days passed. Elsewhere, the rain turned ground into a stinking morass, presenting similar problems to those experienced within the English camp.

At sea, the second blockade failed as one early storm ripped the English ships from their anchors. The next idea, much to the puzzlement of the French who had little else to do but line the battlements and watch, was to create a floating island of upturned boats. There was much debate as to the purpose this would serve until Tréville explained to those who wanted to know that the probable intention was to have English soldiers take shelter in the water under the upturned hulls to see off any supply ships bound to bring relief to the Citadel. This proved ineffectual as, in yet another tempest, the wind lifted the boats from the water and ferocious waves smashed them to pieces. Fortunately, the adverse conditions meant that the Englishmen had already abandoned their somewhat peculiar places of concealment and were safe aboard the vessels or back on shore. Consequently, there was a swift return to the close formation of the enemy ships to maintain some sort of blockade.

The consequence for both armies, with poor and depleted rations, deteriorating morale and appalling conditions was the outbreak of disease. It began, unbeknownst to the French, in Buckingham's camp. The besieged men would find small comfort in discovering that they were not alone in their misery and, as the first French soldiers fell sick, Tréville diverted Aramis' duties solely to the infirmary and his first report made for grim listening.

"It's the bloody flux," Aramis announced in a low voice as he and Tréville stood inside the infirmary doors and surveyed the occupied beds. "The majority of cases are from the infantry but there are three or four cavalrymen and one musketeer, Bernier, so far."

The Captain winced with regret for the young man had acquired his commission a few days before the regiment had marched from Paris and he had been so proud, so excited. What had been his reward? A gruelling, exhausting march; the monotony of trench digging at La Rochelle; transfer to the island; a fierce battle; incarceration within the besieged Citadel; boredom and diminishing rations and now an illness that could potentially mean death to the most hearty of men.

"What do you need?" Tréville asked, his mind going in the direction of clean bedding and clothing for men unable to avoid fouling themselves, a steady supply of fresh water brought from the well, broth from the kitchen to keep up strength even if supplies were dwindling, and more men to help.

"Herbs for medicine for there is precious little left," Aramis answered without hesitation. "If numbers increase substantially, there will be some hard decisions to make. How many can I give a pain killing draught to when they are in the final stages of the sickness and who can I afford to treat with other medicines when they are presenting with the early symptoms?"

He knew from the Captain's silence and haunted expression that medical supplies had no hope of being replenished in the near future.

"Look after them," was all the older man could say. "I know you will do your best."

IV

The town of St. Martin, nestled in the lee of the Citadel, had been relatively quiet in the time since the rapid surrender to the English. The French on duty had marked the comings and goings of some of the enemy soldiers. Some of the enemy officers had taken billets in the town whilst those of lower rank availed themselves of the taverns and unashamedly purloined produce from the locals that had not been squirrelled away as soon as it was harvested. It was clear that the plight of the townspeople with regards to supplies was marginally better than those within the fortress.

It was one afternoon in the dying days of August when events took a sudden turn. The wet had given way to several consecutive days of intense heat and high humidity so that movement within the Citadel was minimal. The infirmary was full and rooms within the immediate vicinity had been requisitioned as additional facilities for the sick.

The death toll was mounting. Ten so far, including young Bernier amongst their number, and Toiras had given the reluctant order to turn a little-used courtyard on the far side of the Citadel into a space where the dead could be cremated at night. There was nowhere within the fortress to bury those who had succumbed to the disease and whilst they had attempted to keep bodies in cooler storerooms in the early days of the siege, the fluctuating temperatures had made that unsustainable. It was unknown how long even that practice could be observed as wood stores within the Citadel were limited and reserved primarily for kitchen use. Toiras and Tréville had already reluctantly discussed the breaking up of furniture to provide fuel sources for the funeral pyres and agreed that the men's cots would be the first sacrificed items if the numbers of dead mounted significantly; the prospect of sleeping on a hard floor was not an alien one to the solders.

The mood overall was morose and those unfortunate enough to pull the later duty in the searing heat watched in comparative silence. Athos and Porthos were at their posts, leather doublets discarded at their feet and hats pulled down low over their eyes as they surveyed the land below them, the south-western most reaches of the English trenches almost at odds with the approach road to the town. Athos tugged at the shoulder of his sweat-sodden shirt, freeing it from where it had stuck to his skin. Licking his lips, he tasted salt and reached for the waterskin that he had carefully lain in the wall's shade. Even so, it was warm and did nothing to slake his thirst but at least it moistened the inside of his mouth, even if temporarily. He held it out towards Pothos who, unaware that he was being watched, winced as if in sudden pain.

"Are you all right?" Athos asked, his concern immediate.

"Yeah, just hungry," came the immediate and oft heard reply. The big man had an appetite to match and he was struggling now that the rationing had been increased. None of the friends had mentioned it but all had seen the way he had tightened the notches on his weapons belt and the doublet now hung loosely on his frame.

"Water?" Athos asked, still holding out the waterskin.

"No thanks," Porthos muttered and swiped at the annoying beads of sweat that trickled down the side of his face.

"You need to keep drinking," Athos persisted, running a hand over his own forehead and looking at the dampness left on his palm.

"I will do," Porthos snapped testily, eliciting a raised eyebrow of surprise from the other musketeer. "Sorry," he added, his tone not softening in the slightest. "I'm hungry, hot and bored an' I know you feel the same so I'll stop goin' on about it."

Athos smiled. "You complain all you like. I do not mind."

Silence fell again, only to be broken minutes later by the sound of women's screams, the shouts of men and the cries of children emanating from the town. Acutely alert now, they straightened and looked towards the town gate, through which a throng of women and children were emerging onto the road, herded by weapon wielding English soldiers. Athos counted three officers on horseback with them. Another line of soldiers kept back the menfolk as they struggled to reach and protect their families.

"What's goin' on?" Porthos demanded.

"I do not think I really want to know," Athos countered as he turned to shout down into the courtyard below him. "Somebody get Captain Tréville up here now."

By the time the Captain had joined them, the line of women and children had spread out and was threading its way along the road and turning towards the Citadel. Any who faltered or stumbled were pushed or grabbed unceremoniously by the soldiers and dragged through the dirt until they scrambled to their feet again. At the town gates, the men had ceased their objections as muskets were fired into the air in warning or used as clubs to knock the men senseless, for many were cowed on their knees or sprawled unmoving in the dust.

"They're coming this way," Athos said.

Tréville was already moving towards the stairs, bellowing orders as he went. "Open the gates! Prepare to receive women and children."

For the next few hours, the Citadel was thrown into utter chaos as the newcomers were welcomed, comforted and assigned to rooms. Many of the women were in shock, a couple hysterical and tears were many at being separated from husbands and older children. The little ones were beside themselves with terror and it took time and effort to appease and calm them down, some of the soldiers trying to distract them by playing with them. Water and a small portion of bread and cheese were distributed to each but Serge swiftly sought out the Captain to ask what he was expected to do with so many new mouths to feed. The women, once recovered, set to in order to help the men prepare the designated rooms for them away from the main quarters and the infirmary. Many such rooms had not been used in an age and required sweeping out; shutters and doors received hasty repairs and bedding was found, gathered and shared, although that virtually wiped out what remained for the sick men.

Later, Tréville met with the Governor and waited whilst the other man watched events beyond his window.

"How are our guests?" Toiras wanted to know.

"Calmer now and settled into their rooms," the Captain replied, running a hand tiredly through his hair.

"I expect that they will be with us for the duration," Toiras said as he turned and sank into his chair, the move signalling his own weariness. He indicated another empty seat and the Musketeer captain sat also. "What have they said?"

"They are not all from St Martin. Some have come from outlying villages and farms on the island and they were brought to the town first. The Catholic women and children from St Martin were then rounded up and all of them sent to us at the Citadel; the Huguenots have been left alone," Tréville explained.

Toiras nodded his understanding. "Buckingham is growing weary of the siege. It has been nearly two months and we have not buckled yet so he has found another way of depleting our supplies more quickly in the hope that he can starve us out sooner. He threatens French Catholic women and children – I suppose that he was prepared to slaughter them if we had not given them sanctuary."

"It is not something we could have waited to find out," Tréville said.

"Of course not, we have done the right thing but I do not know how much longer we can hold out. Have a new, detailed inventory of foodstuffs drawn up for tomorrow. The children must be fed. Find out how many of them there are and the ages of the children. Their portions would obviously be smaller; we will try hard not to reduce them any further until absolutely necessary. I am not about to start punishing the little ones. The women must take their chances along with the men, receiving limited rations unless they are still feeding offspring themselves. As for the men," and here Toiras drew a deep breath, "we must reduce their rations even further."

Toiras put his head in his hands as he thought long and hard about what he was going to say next. Tréville waited patiently for he had no alternatives to offer.

Eventually, Toiras raised his head. "The women and children must remain in that section of the Citadel and use that yard for exercise; the area is off limits for the men. It is bad enough their having been without decent food for weeks but they have been without the company of a woman for longer. The women will remain segregated for their own safety and so that temptation can be avoided; it goes both ways after all. You will designated only your most trusted men to mediate with the women and provide them with the food. By the end of tomorrow, you and I must calculate how many more days we can realistically feed the people in this citadel. If the soldiers are finding it hard now, it will be even harder in a matter of hours. Grumbling bellies will lead to discontent and, no doubt, further sickness."

"What about those who are currently ill?" Tréville hesitated to ask.

"They will have a simple gruel but with what ails them, they will lose all appetite fairly quickly. Make them as comfortable as possible in the meantime whilst the medical supplies last and we will just have to hope and pray that most will have the energy and strength to survive. We have to start thinking about the very real probability of being forced to surrender."

"But, Governor…"

"I have no intention of doing that yet, Captain, but there are over twelve hundred people now within these walls, including innocent women and children, and I refuse to go down in history as being the one responsible for signing a death sentence for all of them."

V

Meanwhile, in the largest storeroom where a number of women were housed, no one paid any attention to the childless woman who sat alone in the corner, shawl over her head and held securely as if she sought to conceal her features. No-one knew who she was and no words had passed between them as the other women were too concerned with their own plight and that of their children. If they had looked a little more closely, they might have noticed the ill-fitting clothing, the inelegant posture with knees drawn up and apart, and the somewhat large hands.

Elsewhere, Athos crossed the main courtyard, debating with himself whether he wanted to eat or crawl into his bed, having worked relentlessly to help the newcomers settle into their accommodation. He had just decided that he ought to eat, that meagre portions of food were not to be ignored, when he spotted Aramis running towards him. The smile of greeting froze on his face as he realised the state his friend was in. Obviously exhausted from long hours in the infirmary caring for the sick and praying over the dying, Aramis looked drawn but that was the least of his concerns now. Coming to an abrupt halt he grabbed Athos by the arm, his eyes tear-filled and despair evident in his voice.

"You have to come; Porthos is sick."

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **Toiras sent the orange water and the Citrus powder to Buckingham in return for the melons. Citrus powder was used in the making of cosmetics at the time. The Duke sent these on to his wife, but she threw them away because she was afraid that they might be poisoned!**_

 _ **Disease did break out in the English camp, partly because of the wet weather, and within the Citadel.**_

 _ **The 'bloody flux' was a form of dysentery. I do not know what ailed them but opted for this as potentially the most obvious, given their circumstances.**_

 _ **Buckingham did round up the island's Catholic women and children, forcing them into the citadel to put pressure on the garrison's dwindling food supplies.**_


	47. Chapter 47

_**Gosh, what a week! It has been busy and then this chapter did not play ball! Anyway, I wanted to leave you with something for the weekend. If I have missed any typos, I apologise; I have used spellcheck etc but it does not always pick up everything. The rain ahs stopped - again - so I shall make a bid for freedom.**_

 _ **Thank you for all the wonderful comments for the last couple of chapters. Now, Porthos needs some tlc. Have a good weekend, everyone.**_

CHAPTER 47

I

Athos followed Aramis into the infirmary, his heart racing and a cold chill settling in the depths of his stomach as the all-too familiar feelings of guilt threatened to overwhelm him. Why had he not realised that Porthos was ill when they were on duty together? Now, he saw, the signs had been evident: the fleeting expressions of discomfort that Porthos attempted to explain away as hunger pangs; the flexing of muscles Athos had thought were merely due to tiredness when it was clearly a way of trying to relieve the initial stirrings of pain; the unwillingness to drink even in the intense heat and, the biggest indicator of all, the short-temperedness. How could he have failed to see that something was wrong? In his defence, there was little he, Aramis or anyone could have done to alleviate the momentum of the illness, even with a few hours' advanced warning, but that could not dispel the notion that he had been neglectful towards his friend.

He almost gagged at the stench within the infirmary and immediately began to inhale through his mouth and exhale through his nose. In the confines of the long room, where extra cots had been squeezed in to accommodate the increasing number of sick soldiers, the air was stifling for the few windows down one side did not open. The rank smell of vomit and other body waste spoke volumes of the varying stages of suffering amongst the men and the accompanying sounds of their affliction assaulted Athos' senses. Whereas some of the ill lay frighteningly still and silent, others moaned or cried out as their stomachs cramped mercilessly, whilst a few more hung miserably over the sides of cots as they harshly retched into any receptacle that had been found. Two orderlies moved quietly and as efficiently as possible between the rows, offering what little help and comfort they could but, despite their efforts and those of Aramis, it was not enough. They needed herbal remedies from supplies that were sorely depleted.

Athos stood, horrified, just inside the door and surveyed the room. Twelve cots were placed down each of the long sides, whereas there had previously been ten. A double row of cots, back to back, went down the centre and all forty-eight were occupied; this was without those housed in the two additional rooms. There was no doubt about it; the infection was spreading at an alarming rate.

"Where is he?" he asked eventually, his voice little more than a whisper.

"Second bed on the left," and Aramis indicated with an outstretched hand to where Porthos lay.

At first he seemed asleep, but as Athos approached, heavy lids fluttered open to reveal eyes dark with pain. Despite that, he managed to grant his visitor a brief smile of welcome.

Athos took the chair Aramis held out to him and placed it beside his stricken friend.

"Why did you not tell me that you were feeling ill?" he said reproachfully as he covered Porthos' hand with one of his own and fought to hide his reaction to the warm clamminess he felt. Porthos was in the first stages of a fever.

"Wasn't really feeling that bad until we came down to help the women and children," Porthos explained. "Then it just hit me. Luckily Aramis saw me before I keeled over."

"At least I helped you in here before that happened," Aramis said as lightly as he could.

Athos looked across at him and noticed, not for the first time, the deeply etched lines of weariness, but now he wondered how many unbroken hours of care his friend had administered to the sick and dying for Aramis looked grey and swayed unsteadily on his feet. Standing, Athos first addressed Porthos.

"I will leave you for a few minutes only. Aramis here needs to get some rest. I want to make sure that he is settled and then I shall return."

As expected, Aramis immediately started to object but the swordsman was having none of it. "You are exhausted and can be of no good to anyone if you collapse or, worse still, succumb to the illness when a little care for yourself might have avoided it. You have worked too long without a break. When next I see Tréville, I will ask whether more men can be assigned to help out in the sickrooms; there are far too many for you to handle."

He ushered Aramis out into the cool of the evening air and the two walked in silence, Athos with a steadying hand on his friend's arm and welcoming the reversal of the situation, as Aramis had seemed to do little more than offer him care and support since they had first arrived at La Rochelle.

"How bad is he?" he asked eventually. It was obvious that he referred to Porthos. "What can we expect?"

"He is not too bad at present but I have no doubt that there will be a marked deterioration over the next few days. The cramping has started that makes him think he wants to relieve himself but then he either cannot or it presents difficulties for him which is extremely painful. He has a slight fever but then that will grow worse. Bowel movements will turn to water and he will most likely start to pass blood too, hence the name of the ailment and, at some point, the vomiting will begin."

"Tell me that he will survive," Athos said softly, the pleading undeniable in his tone.

Aramis shook his head sadly. "I cannot. All that I can do is make him as comfortable as possible, try to get fluids into him and then hope and pray. I can argue that he should be strong enough to overcome this but I have seen men of his ilk succumb and die when it was not expected. It depends on how long it lasts and how weak and dehydrated he becomes; that is frequently the killer. Some men recover in a matter of days, others linger for weeks or even longer. I have heard of men hanging on and dying a month after they had first fallen sick. We just have to get more fluids in him than he loses – no easy task."

Athos' face grew stoic at the grim news. "Is there no medicine to help?"

"No," Aramis said, a frustrated edge creeping into his voice. "There is no outright cure but I can give herbal draughts that might ease the symptoms, if he could keep them down and if I had the herbs in the first place." As Athos shot him a questioning look, Aramis rubbed at gritty eyes and continued. "I am running out of herbs. Given the number of those currently ill, I will have no more of the most needed herbs in seven or eight days. Any new cases – which are extremely likely – will reduce that time. I will have absolutely nothing to relieve their suffering, Athos. I will not be able to help these men at all and if the English were to attack and we have many injured, well …. It does not bear thinking about."

Athos was shocked by Aramis admission and the news that the infirmary was now so poorly provided for in terms of potential remedies. If the women and children also started to fall ill, there was only one favourable outcome that Athos could see and that was that Toiras would have to surrender to Buckingham.

Having reached their quarters, Athos waited until Aramis, sitting on the side of his bed, had shed his boots and doublet. The drained musketeer gave a satisfied sigh as he sank back onto the pillow and eased his weary body into a more comfortable position. A warm, gentle feeling of repose crept through his aching bones and he gave up on the struggle to keep his eyes open. Determined that he was just resting them and with more that he wanted to say to Athos, Aramis quickly capitulated to the pull of much-needed slumber and did not see Athos give a satisfied quirk of the lips nor feel the blanket being pulled up and tucked around him.

"One down, one to go," Athos muttered to himself as he returned to the infirmary, only to discover that Porthos had likewise slipped into rest, albeit an uneasy one. Collecting a bowl of fresh, cool water and a cloth, he settled beside the cot and occupied himself by gently bathing Porthos' fevered face and wiping his clammy torso and arms. He quietly repeated the whole process at regular intervals over the next hour or so, relieved to see that there was no further deterioration in his friend. He was absorbed once more in his work when he became aware of being watched.

With dark eyes unnaturally bright with the burgeoning fever, Porthos gave him a wan smile of appreciation. "You shouldn't be 'ere, y'know. Can't 'ave you goin' down with this."

Athos tut-tutted and raised an eyebrow. "I doubt that could happen from merely sitting beside your bed. I suspect it has more to do with our overcrowded, insanitary living conditions."

"Yeah, well we don't know that for sure an' I don't want you getting' sick on my conscience," Porthos said, an underlying seriousness behind the façade of tetchiness.

"We shall put it to the test then. You are a gambling man and I am willing to wager with you that I shall not succumb just by being here," Athos challenged.

Porthos thought for a moment and shook his head tiredly. "Won't work. If you get sick, how will we know it's not from you bein' here but from somethin' else?"

It was Athos' turn to ponder the ramifications. "I do not know; I just feel that I am right."

"Just because you feel you're right doesn't make it so."

"And now," Athos chastised gently as he laid the cold cloth on Porthos' brow once more, "you are being argumentative for the sake of it."

"Got to do somethin' while I'm lyin' 'ere. Might as well annoy you," Porthos huffed.

"No," Athos countered. "I can see what you are doing, my friend, and I can assure you that it will not work. You are not successfully going to drive me away. My mind is made up and I am staying here to keep you company."

Porthos winced and took a sharp intake of breath as his stomach cramped again. "Well I'm warnin' you now that I'm not up for polite conversation. I might just go to sleep," and he shut his eyes as if to demonstrate the point.

Athos gave a soft chuckle. "You do that; it will save me having to listen to your constant complaining." He let silence hang in the air for a minute or more. "But I am still not going anywhere so expect me to be here when you wake up."

He was still on the chair by the cot, boots off, legs stretched out and feet on the blanket top to brace himself when Aramis gently shook him awake the following morning. Sunlight streamed through the window nearest to them signalling that a considerable amount of time had passed since dawn. Athos yawned and rubbed at his eyes for his sleep had suffered many interruptions.

"What kind of a night has he had?" Aramis asked, looking down on Porthos who slept on through their soft exchange.

"He slept for decent periods but the cramps have awakened him several times. Things are no easier," he added euphemistically, referring to Porthos' repeated attempts to relieve himself through the hours of darkness.

Aramis nodded his understanding. "Did you manage to get him to drink anything?"

Athos' eyes clouded over as he lowered his feet and pushed them back into his boots. "I tried. He took a little but I would have preferred it to have been more. Perhaps you will have more luck."

Aramis shot him a look of disdain. "I doubt it, though I can but try." He reached out a hand and touched the sleeping man's forehead. "His fever seems no worse."

"I am glad you concur; that was my impression," Athos acknowledged. "What about the others?" he asked, as he looked past Aramis at the remainder of the invalids.

"Some have grown noticeably worse but at least there were no further deaths in the night."

"Does that mean the worst could be over?" Athos asked hopefully.

The shake of the other man's head dispelled his brief optimism. "It could just be a lull, like the eye of a storm. I would not read anything into it at present."

Athos pushed himself up and stretched to ease the kinks out of his back garnered from his unnatural sleeping position. "I had best go and see what the Captain wants of me today."

II

Tréville was not in the best of tempers when Athos eventually found him in one of the food stores with Serge.

"You missed the morning muster," he said in an accusatory manner as soon as he saw the young man approach.

Athos took a deep breath to make a more measured response for it was clear that the Captain was far from happy.

"My apologies, Captain, but I spent the night sitting in the infirmary with Porthos whilst Aramis got some rest," he explained.

Tréville sighed and ran a hand distractedly through his hair; although he had been informed that Porthos had joined the swelling ranks of the sick, the latest pressing event had driven that knowledge from his mind. Of course the _Inseparables_ would have ensured that Porthos was not left unattended and he mentally berated himself for charging such a small band of men to care for those who were ill. He could not recall when he had last seen Aramis walking out in the fresh air.

"I'm sorry," he said. "How is he? What of the others?"

Athos gave a succinct update, his eyes passing over the room as he successfully masked the sense of shock at how far the stores had been depleted. Vast areas of floor, which had been stocked almost to the ceiling, now stood bare but what was of greater concern were the three open sacks of flour by which the older men stood. Even from his position, he could see large black flecks of something within the fine off-white powder.

"What has happened?" he asked, sensing that the news was far from good.

"There has been a break in here and in one of the ammunition stores. The flour has been contaminated with gun powder," Tréville announced, his anger and frustration so clear. "I've got men searching the common areas as we speak but heaven only knows what I expect them to find. It seems that what you advised against weeks ago, and what we feared when Savatier was here, has now come to pass."

"What of the guards?" Athos wanted to know. "They must have seen something, surely?"

Tréville exhaled loudly. "What with protection details for the women, Savatier gone from the Citadel and his target obviously elsewhere, the number of men falling sick and the current impasse with the English, the Governor saw fit to countermand my orders and relax the guard rota as of last evening."

"Bloody good idea that was," Serge spat dismissively. "That's bread for a few days that won't be 'appenin' now."

Athos could appreciate the suppressed fury of both of the men. "Is that at least the sum total of damage or is there more?"

"We've been through it carefully and there does not seem to be anything else tampered with, thank goodness," Tréville went on. "I shall reinstate the duty rota, as drawn up by me, with immediate effect; I doubt that the Governor will object this time. I shall find it very hard to refrain from saying 'I told you so.'"

"Someone was looking for an opportune moment then," Athos commented and, when Tréville looked at him sharply, he continued. "The garrison knows that the food supplies and ammunition have been under guard for several weeks. It is something of a co-incidence that those same supplies are attacked the first night that the guard is relaxed."

"Or that the women from St. Martin are brought in 'ere," Serge reminded them.

"The women are housed in one area and have been clearly advised for their own well-being that they are not to venture into any other areas of the Citadel. It is not just to keep them separated from the men; it is also to ensure that the soldiers can continue their training unhindered by the risk of anyone walking into a dangerous situation at an inopportune time. They have had neither the freedom nor the time to explore the fortress to establish the whereabouts of any stores," Athos reasoned.

Tréville groaned. "From the way you are speaking, we still have a traitor in our midst; someone within the fortress working against us for whatever motive. How can we be expected to find them? Where do we begin?"

Athos had moved back to the door and was inspecting the damage that had been inflicted in the area of the lock. "I still find it hard to believe that no-one heard anything."

"Oh they did!" Tréville exploded at last. "The watch on the battlements heard more than one successive loud noise which they attempted to explain away amongst themselves by saying that it must have emanated from the English camp. When I pointed out to them that the camp was in the opposite direction, they just seemed nonplussed about it. Did it occur to them to at least investigate the immediate area? No. Apparently they were too fearful to leave their posts and assumed that someone else would do the checking."

"And these were musketeers?" Athos was incredulous, not daring to think that any of his peers could be so negligent.

"Of course not," Tréville retorted. "You would have heard by now if they had been and they would have been on more than just a charge, I can tell you! No, the imbeciles were from the infantry. I'll not be making that mistake again; they will do their duty under direct musketeer leadership. Mind you, one of the idiots thought he saw a woman running away."

Athos fingered the damaged lock and splintered wood. "I doubt that a woman could have done this with a few blows. The tool used would have been too heavy and unwieldy, especially if they had already broken into one of the armouries."

"I dismissed the notion as ridiculous from the start."

Even as Tréville said the words, the silhouette of a musketeer filled the doorway.

"Sorry to bother you an' all, Captain," Claude said, "but I was thinkin' as how you'd want to be seeing this. It was found stashed away in a feedin' trough in an empty stall in the stables."

The men crowded together as Tréville took the bundle of materials held out to him. Unfolding it, he discovered it to be a rough skirt, soiled top and woollen shawl.

"So there was a woman after all," the Captain declared.

"Not necessarily," Athos said as he spotted something in the part of the store where the remaining flour sacks were stacked and went to investigate. "Did you move those three sacks from here to where they are now?"

"No," Tréville said, curious as to Athos' line of thinking. "They were over here which struck Serge immediately as odd and they had been sliced open, probably with a knife."

He watched as Athos squatted on his heels and trailed a finger through the flour and dust on the floor. The younger man cast an alert look round the area again.

"I have already said that I doubt many women would be able to break in through these wooden doors. We now have discarded women's clothing; a naked woman or one in her under garments walking around would draw immediate attention! These sacks have been deliberately moved before they were tampered with so the perpetrator was not setting out to conceal what he had done; it is as if he did not want us to delay discovering what had happened. It was enough that the flour was unusable. Perhaps more sacks would have been damaged but I tend to think that the person responsible was interrupted in their task or feared discovery if they remained here any longer. For us, the loss of three sacks is unfortunate but not the catastrophe it could have been, so I think that he did not complete his task.

"I agree with your conviction that we are looking for a male and that our traitor is trying to cast blame on the women we have taken in," Tréville agreed.

Athos stood up but his attention was still fixed upon the ground for some moments until he raised troubled eyes to meet those of Tréville.

"The women had no chance to bring spare clothing or items of value with them and we surely would have heard by now if one of them had been robbed of their only clothes. Of course, that does not preclude the terrible prospect of one of the women being murdered and her body hidden somewhere undiscovered as yet, but I would expect the group to report one of their women folk missing soon if that had transpired."

He pointed to the ground. "There are fresh footprints here. If you have not walked in this vicinity, and they certainly are not mine, then it is a fearfully large woman who is the owner of the feet that made these." He waited as Tréville joined him to look at the evidence on the floor.

"I believe, Captain, that the person – the man - behind this has come into the Citadel in disguise within the group of women, hoping to remain undetected whilst he finds the freedom to do whatever mischief he can."

"A man? What man? Who would want to do that?" Serge demanded.

Tréville and Athos did not answer out loud but the look that passed between them spoke volumes. They both had the same suspicions.


	48. Chapter 48

**_Thank you so much for your lovely comments and continued support last week. I am interested in your ideas as to who has infiltrated the Citadel; all is revealed below! This chapter has taken a little time as it did not fall easily into place and it is long because I wanted to hit a significant point - you know me by now so I don't think I will be spoiling anything when I say I was trying to get to a particular cliffhanger!_**

 ** _Hope you enjoy it. Chapter 49 is well underway and will be up in a couple of days._**

CHAPTER 48

"So no-one knew who she was?" Tréville barked to the assembled women who visibly quaked at his authoritative presence.

"No, Sir; beggin' your pardon, Sir," one of them dared to venture, dipping in an embarrassed curtsey as if she thought that was how this imposing man ought to be addressed.

Tréville harrumphed, immediately feeling awkward at the gesture and so deigned to change his posture. Unaware of what he was doing, he had been standing as though addressing the men; feet apart, weight evenly balanced, back ramrod straight and hands on hips. The stance was usually deliberate, a psychological assertion of power but it was not needed where the women were concerned; they were already greatly disquieted and upset at having been so roughly ousted from their homes and removed from their men folk before being abandoned at the gates of the Citadel.

Now, they were besieged in the Spartan confines of a fortress with well in excess of a thousand men and, not in possession of the finer points of being in such a situation, they were terrified. The concern of the majority stemmed from a fear for their own safety at being in such close proximity to so many men starved of female companionship for at least two months, mingled with an anxiety for the wellbeing of their loved ones left behind in the town of St. Martin, as well as alarm at what would happen should the English decide to storm the Citadel and be successful.

To cap it all, they had now been confronted by this austere officer firing questions at them about one of their number. All they could tell him was that the woman was not from the town so they had all assumed that she hailed from one of the villages, but the women from the more rural reaches of the island denied ever having seen her before and they, in their turn, thought she was one of the town's women. She was odd – aloof – keeping to herself even as they were marched to the gates of the Citadel.

Once they had been housed in this section, she had deliberately removed herself to the farthest corner of the room, refusing to engage in conversation with anyone. They had thought her the victim of the pox or some other disfigurement as she had kept her shawl tight around her face to conceal her features but, too caught up with their own sense of displacement, they had maintained their distance rather than persist in any offers of friendship. They could not recall when anyone last saw her so they had no idea when she left the room, or where she was going.

"They were no help at all," Tréville growled as he and Athos strode from the building and continued to make their rounds to ensure that the men freshly assigned to duties were in their designated positions.

"I would not say that," Athos dared to contradict the officer. "We now know for certain that someone did come in with the women for clandestine purposes and that everything suggests that person is a male with an agenda."

Tréville paused to watch repairs being made to the lock and woodwork of the storeroom door and Athos halted beside him, waiting patiently for he knew well the Captain's body language and that the older man was mulling things over.

"You think it's him, don't you?" Tréville asked at last, his voice low so that they were not in any danger of being overheard.

"Yes, and so do you," Athos replied. "It was not the act of an opportunist; it had to be someone who knew and understood both the workings and the layout of the Citadel; how we were using the facilities since we all withdrew here. This is a storeroom in addition to those used by the original garrison."

"What do you think he expects to gain now?" Tréville's brow furrowed as he thought of possible answers to his own question.

Athos looked up, his attention distracted as a sudden gust of wind caught the pennant flying on its mast above the central building block. It was the familiar but unusually shaped cross in white set against a blue background; the symbol of St. Martin de Ré. He had seen it so often now that he had almost forgotten its existence.

"Savatier's orders to assassinate Buckingham obviously came from much higher, as we suspected. His attempt has been foiled so that will have done little to endear me to him." Athos flashed a rare smile, "Especially as he seemed to hate me enough before. However, I do not think that hatred for me is enough to initiate such an act of retribution against the Citadel merely for what I did to him."

"He believed he had a deep-seated grievance against me," Tréville added, "but, like you, I would not have thought it enough to have him risk everything to come back here."

"Unless," Athos continued, "torture at Buckingham's hands has unhinged him. He was a mess when I saw him; with more hours of such terrible treatment at the hands of those who are experts in their field, who knows what it might have done to him? If the Duke released him promptly, he has had time to crawl away and let his physical injuries heal, but perhaps not his mind."

"A madman is unpredictable and dangerous," Tréville asserted. "If he has now decided that he has been betrayed by you and me, it is only one small step for him to feel that he has been abandoned by the regiment, the French and, ultimately, the King."

"You surely do not think that he has now sided with the English?" Athos found that notion too hard to accept.

"No, but if he were as badly hurt by the interrogation as you say, someone must have found and cared for him. The Catholic women here did not recognise him in their midst so he is not one to whom they have given aid," the Captain reasoned.

Athos' eyes widened. "Do you think that Huguenots took him in and looked after him? That he has since thrown in his lot with them?

Tréville gave a slight shrug. "It is all speculation on our part but possible given the circumstances. It doesn't consequently make him a lover or supporter of the English."

The prospect was a chilling one if the officer were to be correct in his supposition. Tréville scuffed at the dirt with the toe of his boot but again Athos knew that there was nothing absentminded about the action. Suddenly the older man straightened, the move decisive and his face a mask of grim determination.

"Spread the word surreptitiously; I want every available musketeer on an additional muster in the courtyard in thirty minutes, save for those working in the infirmary. Then rejoin me in the office. I need to adjust the duty rotas once more to free up musketeers. They alone will conduct a thorough, methodical search of this place because they know what Savatier looks like. We do not know what he is wearing now; he could have appropriated anyone's uniform and infiltrated a particular group of men. You and I will divide the men into groups and assign them to specific areas. We will search the whole place and then repeat it; if he is still here, we _will_ find him."

II

"'Aven't you got somethin' better to do?" Porthos grumbled as Aramis bathed his face yet again; not that the feel of the cold water on his hot skin was not welcome.

"No," Aramis said decisively and continued in his work.

Porthos moved his head away from the damp cloth to crane his neck and see the rest of the infirmary past Aramis.

"Don't you 'ave to see to them too?"

Aramis shook his head. "Tréville has sent more help."

"Anyone I know?" Porthos asked as he sank back into the softness of the pillow, the effort of trying to look around proving too much.

"I doubt it," Aramis smiled. "A number of the women volunteered their services when he and Athos went to see them."

"The soft, carin' hand of a woman an' I get stuck with you," the big man complained.

Aramis laid a hand across his heart and feigned disappointment. "You wound me, my friend, to suggest that the new help is better than me. You are making grand assumptions about the women." He leaned in close and whispered conspiratorially. "Have you seen any of them?"

Porthos began to chuckle, almost his old self, but almost immediately, his face contorted and he clutched at his stomach as pain lanced through him anew.

Aramis laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Breathe, my friend. Breathe through it."

Porthos struggled to obey and it seemed an interminable time before he relaxed and exhaled loudly. Sweat beaded his brow and trickled down into his hairline until Aramis wiped his face with the cool cloth once more.

"How do you feel now?" he dared to ask as Porthos finally managed to regulate his breathing.

"About the same ... battered," was the brief response.

Aramis gave an encouraging grin. "No worse then. That's good to hear and your fever is no worse."

"I just feel like I'm bakin'," Porthos sighed and fell silent again, his eyes closing.

His friend had begun to think that he had fallen asleep for it was a while before the stricken man found his voice. "Where's Athos. Has 'e been in while I was asleep?"

He was obviously trying to distract himself with idle conversation but the fact that he was asking after the third member of their group saddened Aramis, for he did not know the actual whereabouts of the other musketeer and disturbing rumours had been filtering into the infirmary.

Briefly, he explained to Porthos what he had heard about the break-in at the armoury and one of the stores. He knew that the musketeers had been mustered for Claude had come in to round up any who might have been visiting sick colleagues but the older soldier did not know the reason. The only useful information that he could impart was that Tréville's face was like thunder and Athos was at his side, relaying instructions to the men. There was no doubt that all would be made clear when they had gathered; Claude promised to come back and explain at the first available opportunity but that had been mid-morning and, in the intervening hours, he had not returned. Whatever was going on had to be keeping him and the other musketeers busy.

"They're lookin' for whoever's done it," Porthos stated.

"How many hiding places can there be in the Citadel and why just musketeers doing the searching?" Aramis was thinking out loud.

"I bet we don't know half of what's here within these walls. Reckon there'll be more space and tunnels below ground too. Who knows, maybe Tréville's got musketeers searchin' as he reckons he can trust 'em."

"Maybe," Aramis replied, not sounding convinced.

The day wore on inexorably and late afternoon was passing into early evening when Athos suddenly appeared, accompanied by several other musketeers. He made straight for Aramis and Porthos whilst the others either headed for doors leading to ante-rooms and walk-in cupboards, or set about scrutinising faces in the lines of cots and looking beneath them.

"What's going on?" Aramis demanded, his face dark at the intrusive search of the room of sick men.

Athos squatted next to the bed as close to his two friends as was physically possible. "We're searching for Savatier," he said softly. "We left the infirmary as long as we dared but we needed to check here too."

"Savatier?" Porthos repeated the name as though he could not believe what he had heard.

"You think he has hidden himself amongst the sick?" Aramis hissed.

Athos maintained a veneer of unchangeable calm. "We cannot exclude anything," and he went on to explain how the musketeer lieutenant had infiltrated the Citadel by disguising himself and joining the women. "He is not to be underestimated," he added.

They talked in low voices for a few more minutes as Athos elucidated upon the extent and thoroughness of the search, and the increase in guards on duty.

"It can only be a matter of time before he is apprehended. We are in the main second sweep at present; that is why we could not ignore the infirmary any longer. If he is swapping places of concealment ahead of us, he cannot keep that up, or will make a mistake before long so the hunt continues. He must have realised by now that he cannot hope to inflict any more damage with such increased security presence at crucial points within the Citadel. Guards have been doubled and then again, so that he cannot overpower a solitary soldier and hope to cause mischief. The only thing for him to do is to attempt to escape."

"So you just think he's going to try to walk out through the man gate?" Aramis was incredulous. "In case it has escaped your notice, we are besieged here. How can he get out and where could he go? The English are camped just outside and we know he's upset them more than a little when he tried to kill Buckingham; they're not likely to be welcoming him with open arms. What makes you and Tréville think that it's him anyway?"

"Gut reaction," Athos answered and, when he saw Aramis begin to object, he continued, " and who else is it likely to be anyway?"

He turned his attention to the man in the cot. "How are you? It is good to see you awake." The words were meant to be encouraging but even he had noted the fever-bright eyes and the sudden, extended blinks as Porthos fought the waves of discomfort that surged through him periodically.

"No better, no worse," the big man answered resignedly and, with that, Athos had to be satisfied.

The men had finished their search and one of them called softly to Athos as they retreated to the door.

He stood up. "I have to go. Take care." The words were directed to Porthos but he then followed that with a nod to Aramis, the unspoken message clear for the marksman to do all he could to help the ill man.

"You take care of yourself too," Aramis warned, concern evident in his voice. He did not want to think what might happen if Athos and Savatier were to come face to face and it had not escaped his attention that, during their discussion, Athos had replaced the word 'searching' with 'hunt'. Whether by design or subconsciousness, it did not bode well and Aramis could not help but worry. A part of him was hoping that others of the musketeer regiment might be the ones to discover the former officer in whatever hiding place he had found for he was likely to be a desperate man.

III

Late evening and the musketeers were still searching. They had not even stopped to partake of their allotted limited rations. Instead, Serge had set up a table in what had become known as the musketeer courtyard, even though it was shared with the other cavalrymen, and it was the off-duty men from the latter group, acutely aware of the serious situation, who collected food from the table and followed the musketeers around with bread and cold meat. With the morning's distraction and the loss of more flour, Serge had ordered a restricted bake of fresh bread until he had had the time for a careful inventory of remaining stocks.

As they were not stopping for actual meals, no matter how reduced these days, Toiras himself had given the order that the searching musketeers be given the fresh bread but it was still clear that the single, thin slice of cold meat was nothing like the multiple thick slabs that the men were used to receiving in better days. Other cavalrymen came round with pewter cups and buckets of cold water drawn from the well so that the musketeers might slake their thirst without halting their search for too long and, more importantly, not moving from their positions so that the hunted man would not be afforded an opportunity to make good his escape.

Athos returned to Tréville's side, licking the meat juices from the fingers of one hand as he held out another slice of bread and meat to the officer.

Tréville shook his head, totally disinterested in food as he rotated his shoulders in a vain bid to rid himself of the tense ache of stiff muscles. The proffered food remained in place and, huffing in exasperation, he prepared to tell the young man that he did not want any food.

"Eat!" Athos ordered in an interesting reversal of roles.

There was a moment's hesitation and then the officer complied. They stood together in silence, watching the systematic movement of a small group of musketeers from one door way to another as the search continued. A flurry of other men were moving about efficiently lighting torches set into wall sconces as the light began to fade.

"We are coming to the end of the third sweep. Do you want me to instruct them to begin a fourth?"

Tréville finished his mouthful before he spoke. "Yes. We have to keep up the pressure. You may not have heard but Toiras has given the order that the men are to remain in their quarters so the only movement this night will be those on duty, musketeers and, God willing, Savatier himself. I do not know how he has managed to remain hidden this long."

"I agree. We have made three rigorous searches thus far." Athos hesitated and eventually put into words an idea that had been disturbing him since he left the infirmary. "You don't think he is being aided by a musketeer, do you?"

Tréville shot him an amazed look, as if about to deny such a ridiculous notion, and then seemed to fold in upon himself. "As we have not managed to find him yet, it has crossed my mind. You unnerved me by saying my fears out loud."

"Have you any idea as to who might give him such assistance?" Athos wondered. "He never struck me as having any friends within the regiment."

"There is no-one who comes to mind. He always kept himself to himself; I found it difficult to get to know the man. He certainly was not one for an informal conversation. That does not mean he has not secured the support of someone," Tréville said, a hint of sadness in his voice. "What about you?"

Athos gave a ghost of a smile. "Nothing definite. It's totally irrational and unfounded and I have not got a scrap of evidence, but I can think of one who would go out of his way to do anything he could if he thought it would cross me."

"Delacroix," Tréville determined correctly. Athos nodded. "Has he given you anymore trouble since the attack?" It had been something that had rankled with the Captain that no evidence remained to associate Delacroix with the beating given to Athos by Allard and Plourde.

There was a hesitation. "I overheard a comment from him earlier; I was meant to hear it but I did not react. There were other more pressing matters in hand."

Tréville frowned as he studied the younger man. "What sort of comment?"

Athos lowered his eyes and refused to answer. "It is of no consequence and in the past."

He could not bring himself to repeat the statement that had labelled him as Tréville's 'pet', with the added hurtful speculation as to what he might not be prepared to do for his 'master' in order to curry favour. The sniggers from Delacroix' friends that accompanied the comment, coupled with their more licentious theories as to the types of hospitality Athos had enjoyed as Buckingham's _guest_ , had made his cheeks burn and were intended to incite him to retaliate. It had taken all his willpower to walk away as if he had not heard, but their combined jeers and raucous laughter that followed him clearly indicated that they knew he was merely trying to ignore them.

Tréville shook his head as he realised that Athos was holding back again, that relations with Delacroix were never going to improve. He resolved to change the subject – slightly. "Do you think Delacroix is behind the deaths of Allard and Plourde?"

Athos' head snapped up. "There was no evidence to that effect."

"I know, but that is not what I asked."

"We know he manipulated them into a position where they attacked me and later confessed. They spoke of a signed document that incriminated him but it went missing. We might say that it is a convenient excuse but what need would they have had to lie about that? Then they disappear and are both found dead. Do I think that he was involved? Yes, but I cannot say how."

"And if he is capable of murder, then he is more than capable of helping Savatier if, as you say, it would go against anything you are doing and, thereby, against me."

Athos groaned in frustration. "Why can we never gather any evidence about him?"

"Because as deceitful as he is, he is clever. Up to a point, that is. Be assured, if he does not mend his ways, the day will come when he will make a mistake that will be his undoing. I live in the perpetual hope that he will learn and become more honourable; his father is essentially a good man, even if he appears to have more money than sense and has spoilt his son."

Athos refrained from commenting, so surprised was he that the officer had spoken so openly about one of the other musketeers in his charge. Instead, he turned his thoughts once more to the ongoing search for Savatier.

Instantly he brightened. "Then he will help Savatier to escape! It serves no purpose to keep him hidden for, knowing how relentless this search is, he will be found eventually. Delacroix runs the risk of Savatier disclosing his assistance so he needs to get him out of the Citadel."

Tréville was interested in the new idea. "How can he do that?"

"The same way that Allard and Plourde were trying to make good their escape - from the quayside." Athos was warming to his theory now.

"But how so? There are no more small boats."

Athos stilled as a new thought struck him and his voice was low as he explored the feasibility of what was stirring in his mind. "He does not need a boat; all he has to do is wait for low tide. He knows his way across the rocks beyond the Citadel wall. He can either risk coming up between the Citadel and the English trenches – risky, I know – or he could swim along the shore beyond the enemy camp. The tide might even help him to the next fortress; we know that Buckingham has ignored its existence for whatever reason. He could hide there indefinitely."

"So all he needs is for Delacroix to clear his way to the quayside," Tréville added.

"Maybe; maybe not," was Athos' cryptic reply.

"I don't follow," the Captain sounded terse at his own inability to comprehend.

"Delacroix might help him to get there if he hasn't already done so, or Savatier could have been there all along after contaminating the flour," Athos explained.

Tréville looked ready to explode at the possibility of a careless oversight. "But I thought we had included the quayside buildings in the search?"

Athos remained patient. "We did, but as musketeers approached to conduct their search, what was to stop Savatier from slipping into the water and concealing himself under the wooden extension to the quay? It was a while before the cavalryman's body was found there, after all. If the focus was on searching the buildings, it might not have occurred to the men to turn around and search the water."

The Captain had to reluctantly admit that the idea was plausible. "When is low tide?"

Athos tried to work it out from when he had been keeping watch on the strange behaviour of the lieutenant. "It is high now so I think it would be at about four, before dawn."

"Then," said Tréville determinedly, "we will be waiting."

IV

They had later searched for Delacroix, deciding that if they knew his whereabouts, he could not sneak off to render any possible assistance to the former lieutenant.

He was not where they expected him to be.

His associates made helpful suggestions but when Tréville and Athos followed them, Delacroix was not to be found.

"I say we go down to the quayside now," Tréville said as they wearily crossed the musketeer courtyard yet again. They had lost count of the number of times they had traversed the same ground.

Eyes straying to the door of the infirmary, Athos paused. It was many hours since he had last visited and had an update on Porthos' condition. The Captain noticed his hesitation and immediately understood the reason behind it.

"Go and see how Porthos is and join me at the waterfront," the Captain insisted.

Athos was torn between checking on his friend and accompanying the officer immediately. "Wait here. Do not go down there without me," he urged. "I will be but a few minutes." He disappeared hastily through the open doorway into the infirmary.

He was back in six minutes, shoulders slumped and spirits shaken at the discovery that Porthos had deteriorated suddenly and dramatically during the evening. His bowels had turned to water but he was too far gone in the grips of a raging fever to know any embarrassment when Aramis quietly changed the bedding and cleaned him.

Without having the time to explain fully what he and the Captain were about, Athos could not help but feel guilty and thought he saw a flash of regret in Aramis' dark eyes when he said he could not stay.

"I will be back," he promised, and meant what he said.

But when he walked out into the courtyard, Tréville had gone and a cold fear clutched his heart.

He spun around frantically but there was no sign of the officer in the shadows. The only movement came from a group of musketeers arriving to receive new orders, having completed searching their section for the third time.

"Musketeers with me!" Athos yelled as he broke into a run. He had disappeared through the archway that led down to the quayside before any of them had the time to react.

Even as he emerged onto the waterside, he could hear the sounds of a scuffle. At the end of the wall from where he had spent so many long hours watching, he looked towards the rocks and saw, by the poor light of a waning moon, Tréville and Savatier locked in a desperate struggle. They were not too far away and so Athos climbed down from the edge of the quay and began to clamber over the rocks towards the two men, slipping and sliding on the wet, seaweed-covered surfaces as he went.

He steadied himself with wavering, outstretched arms as he glanced back over his shoulder at the sound of footsteps, only to be reassured as the other musketeers raced into view. Turning back, he resumed his treacherous journey across the rocks to where the two men were engaged in their ferocious fight, clinging onto each other with one hand and trading punches with the other.

Athos was still several feet away when a chance blow to the temple from the musketeer Captain caught Savatier off balance and he pitched sideways into the dark water. His hand, still caught in the doublet of the other man, had him dragging Tréville in with him.

Ignoring the risk to his own safety, Athos scrambled a little faster over the rocks that separated him from where he had last seen the men but neither head had broken the water's surface.

"Tréville!" he screamed, fraught eyes searching the immediate area. "Tréville!"

Athos dropped and lowered himself swiftly into the sea, for he had the presence of mind that to dive into water with rocks below its surface was tantamount to inviting a broken neck. He was already fearful that the Captain might have been knocked senseless when he fell in and he constantly searched for an unconscious form to be floating on the current, which was admittedly stronger than he had expected and pulling him in an easterly direction towards the coastline that bordered the English camp.

The other musketeers were shouting instructions amongst themselves as one broke away from the group and headed back to the Citadel to retrieve ropes. Another two had had the sense to seize flaming torches from wall sconces before they let the courtyard and made their way carefully to join the rest as they spread out and began their perilous journey across the rocks towards the spot where they had seen Athos enter the water.

"There he is!" one of them cried out as he held the torch aloft before him and pointed to Athos' dark head bobbing in the water.

"Tréville!" he was still screaming the Captain's name, his voice growing hoarse. "Can you see him?" he yelled to those who looked on, but the words that came back to him were indistinct.

Treading water clear of the rocks, he circled once, twice and then a third time, spitting out a mouthful of brine.

The men on shore saw him take several deep intakes of breath before he rose gracefully, almost suspended in mid-air, and then dived out of sight below the inky water.


	49. Chapter 49

**_Dear all, thank you so much for the comments and PMs on the last chapter. Goodness, it did open a can of worms and I LOVE reading your speculation. Sometimes your thoughts and observations help me to sharpen up the next chapter or so whilst on other occasions, it is a joy to see that some of you are definitely on the right lines. I so enjoy the contact from you all._**

 ** _So, what will happen now? The Citadel is in trouble; the Captain's in trouble; Athos is in trouble; Savatier is in trouble; Porthos is in trouble and Aramis ... well he is in trouble as he tries to hold everything together. As ever, there is the cliffhanger but no scrolling to the end to read that bit first. Promise me now!_**

CHAPTER 49

I

Later, Athos would not be able to recall how often he dived beneath the surface of the water. He had also lost track of time itself for the cold was numbing his limbs and his lungs burned as he fought to hold his breath as long as possible ... and that little bit longer. Underwater, visibility was virtually non-existent for the moon was too weak to penetrate the depths and he was heavily dependent upon touch. He almost recoiled when his hand made contact with a form that had none of the solidity or sharpness of the rocks and he grabbed at it in desperation, kicking out for the surface and dragging the person with him. He dared not think about which of them it was that he had found.

As he broke the surface, gasping for breath, he struck out for the shore and the hands reaching for both him and his burden. He tried to help as they hauled him out of the water but exhaustion and the cold conspired to render his limbs useless. He lay on his front, reminiscent of a landed fish, and breathing hard as the rock's rough surface scratched at his cheek whilst the smell of seaweed assaulted his nostrils. The onslaught on his senses was welcome, confirming that he was still amongst the living and, as if reminded, he reluctantly opened his eyes to look at the frighteningly still person laid out on the next rock, musketeers running hands over limbs for any sign of injury.

He could not suppress his sob of undisguised relief as the man violently coughed up a stream of water. Familiar blue eyes fluttered open, stared at him vacantly and then focused. A weak hand reached out and touched his arm, lacking the energy to actually grasp him. Mouthing a 'thank you', Tréville's eyes slid closed as he lost consciousness again.

"Come on," someone said, reaching for Athos and trying to pull him up. "We need to get the pair of you to the infirmary."

"Wait," he ordered, rolling onto his back and pushing himself into a sitting position so that he could scan the water again. "What of Savatier?"

There was an uneasy silence as the other men looked anywhere but directly at him, wondering which one of them was going to answer.

"There is no sign of him. He has not surfaced at all. The Lieutenant has drowned," one of them, Buton, finally said. "Now we really do need to move you two."

II

Aramis was dozing in a chair when the door to the infirmary burst open and a large group of musketeers noisily entered, disturbing the peace and quiet of those who, despite their ailments, were trying to rest in the early hours of the morning. He was galvanised into action when he saw three of them carrying the unconscious figure of the regiment's captain and guided them to the cot next to Porthos that had become vacant during the day when its previous occupant, one of the last of the injured men to recover from the attack by the English archers, eventually was well enough to return to his quarters.

"What happened?" he demanded brusquely, already pulling at Tréville's boots and inadvertently spilling the water that remained in them over the floor. "Get him out of his wet clothes," he ordered two of the men who had been carrying the Captain, before rapidly issuing a further string of instructions to the other gathered men for blankets, hot water, some broth, bandages and ointment because, even with a cursory look, he had spotted a plethora of cuts and abrasions.

It was as they peeled away obediently to fulfil their tasks that he saw and heard Athos, held up between two more musketeers, his teeth chattering uncontrollably like a noisy drum tattoo.

"Where do you want us to put him?" Buton asked, looking around for an empty cot and not finding one.

Aramis grabbed a chair and set it down nearby. "Strip him, wrap him in a blanket and sit him there; we have no more beds." He glanced to where the men were shrouding their unconscious Captain in blankets before he turned to Athos, an all-consuming concern making him sound harsher that he actually was when he saw his friend remonstrating with those who would undress him, insisting that he was perfectly capable of doing it himself. The shaking of his numb hands indicated otherwise.

"Let me do it," Aramis first waved the other men away and then slapped Athos' hands down. "I need you out of those clothes now before you catch your death."

"An unlikely occurrence," Athos corrected, sounding strange above his chattering teeth as he alluded to the possibility of death being caught, rather than his ability to lose his apparel.

Aramis was not amused. "Do not try to be clever or pedantic with me, my friend. Now is neither the time nor the place. What on earth have you been doing? I can't let you out of my sight without you go and do something stupid! What possessed you?"

His own hands suddenly began to shake as he fumbled with the row of small buttons on Athos' doublet; it did not do well to think on what might have been for, despite his dismissive scolding, he knew that something momentous had happened and he was not altogether sure that he wanted to hear it. Not this night. He glanced across to where Porthos lay restlessly. No, not tonight; there was too much happening already.

He cursed as another button on the thick, wet leather refused to move but stopped as a cold, trembling hand covered his. Raising his head, he looked into expressionless green eyes.

The voice would have been flat, devoid of emotion save for the persistent teeth-chattering. "Tréville and Savatier were fighting on the rocks. I could not get to them in time. Savatier fell, pulling the Captain in with him. I had to go in to find him. I could not just leave …." His voice trailed off. "I had to go in after him, Aramis. You have to understand."

His tone was pleading; he needed Aramis to comprehend why he had taken such a risk. Indeed, he had not even thought twice about his action; it was the obvious and only thing that he could do.

The two men stood, a tableau amidst a hive of activity until, ignoring the feel of the sodden clothing, Aramis suddenly pulled his friend into a desperate embrace, terrified at how close he had come to losing him, fearful that he could still lose another brother to sickness and feeling utterly helpless, that events were racing out of his control. Athos stood stiffly at first, arms by his side, bemused by the unexpected show of emotion and affection and then he responded, arms slowly rising and enveloping Aramis as the two clung together.

"Savatier is lost," he whispered into Aramis' ear, not daring to say the words 'dead' or 'drowned' aloud. As his brother pulled away to stare at him, he went on, "He never came up again; he could have hit his head on the rocks or his clothing must have weighted him down, just as ours so nearly did to us."

Aramis merely nodded at the significance of the pronouncement; the machinations of the former lieutenant were one less thing that they had to worry about now. He became business-like again and worked, successfully this time, at the buttons of the doublet. Once Athos was divested of the sopping wet garments and wrapped in a double layer of blankets, Aramis left others to serve him with hot broth and turned his attention to the regiment's commanding officer.

It was less than an hour before Tréville's body temperature was sufficiently elevated again that a healthy colour once more suffused his skin, the cuts had all been cleaned and treated to ward off infection and he had recovered his senses enough to sit up in bed and swallow half a bowl of hot broth, more than Athos had managed. The other musketeers had dispersed with the explicit instruction to inform the rest of the regiment that the search was no longer necessary and that the men might get some well-earned rest. It went without saying that those who had been present at the quayside would add their own version of events when recounting how the lieutenant had perished. One man had been dispatched to update the Governor and the message sent back was that Toiras would come down to see them within the next two hours, it being about five in the morning already.

Serge had materialised unbidden to refill the bowls with steaming broth and stood over the two recovering men, as if on guard, to ensure that they both emptied their bowls this time. Tréville, feeling like a recalcitrant schoolboy, did as he was instructed, albeit reluctantly, and wondered if Serge ever took the time to sleep.

At length, Aramis moved back to Porthos' bedside and resumed bathing hot skin to bring some comfort to his friend's fevered body.

"We were right then," Tréville said eventually, but there was no jubilation in his tone, only a sadness at the loss of an erstwhile good man who, for whatever reason, had turned bad.

"I think, perhaps, that it would be a good idea if the duties were eased but that the men did not stand down from those positions entirely," Athos suggested from his place on the floor. Two thin straw mattresses had been put down, one on top of the other, to afford him some respite from the hard wooden surface but he had chosen to sit on them, back against the wall, knees drawn up and arms wrapped around them.

He looked up at the Captain. "We would not want to be taken by surprise again and the next time, should there be one, it might be someone from the English camp who manages to gain access somehow, some way. The fact that it has happened the once does not discount it happening again."

"I concur," said Tréville.

He eyed the younger man and wondered, not for the first time, how there could be such a store of wisdom on such young shoulders. It had been something that he had had to strive for through years of military experience but Athos was a strategist, a thinker, who absorbed information like a sponge and who only had to look at a situation briefly before he saw diverse outcomes. The men recognised and respected his ability, although the likes of Delacroix resented it, and the majority would willingly submit to a leadership that he did not believe he had nor deserved.

It was the natural step for Tréville's thoughts to turn to Pinon and the unresolved question as to why the young nobleman had walked away from his lands and responsibilities and refused to use his title. Something catastrophic had to have occurred for he was a natural leader and his estate must surely have flourished under his guidance. Although a man usually of few words and undeniably difficult to befriend, except by the very few, he had a fierce loyalty once it was bestowed and would do anything to support and protect his brothers.

And his Captain, Tréville realised.

He cleared his throat. "Athos."

Steady green eyes gazed up at him through a shock of unruly hair. Uncombed and left to dry, the musketeer's matted hair curled wildly and made him seem so much younger than his actual years.

"Thank you. You saved my life and I will never forget it," Tréville went on quietly.

Abashed, Athos dropped his head, a definite pink tinge appearing in his cheeks.

Tréville softened, his heart aching as he thought to himself, " _Good grief, boy. What happened to you that you do not even know how to accept praise where praise is due?"_

Athos mumbled something about anyone doing the same thing and began to scramble awkwardly to his feet, almost as if he were trying to escape.

"Where do you think you're going?" Aramis' voice carried easily.

"Coming to see how Porthos is," he replied.

"No need," came the curt answer as Aramis rounded Tréville's cot to stand at the foot of the mattresses. "He's asleep at last and I do not want him disturbed."

"I could help," Athos sounded plaintive. "Bathe his face or something."

"From what I hear, you just nearly killed yourself. You stay there until I am convinced you are fully recovered," Aramis ordered.

"He saved my life," Tréville repeated slowly and carefully, wary at the sudden emotional outburst from the younger musketeer.

"Granted, but what were you doing that deemed such action necessary?" Aramis folded his arms, his whole demeanour suggesting a suppressed anger.

It would have been funny were it not for the fact that he was being openly confrontational to an officer. Tréville's eyes narrowed but he made the conscious decision not to upbraid the man for his tone; he was clearly being stretched to breaking point by the demands within the infirmary and a critically ill friend. "I was attempting to apprehend a man who posed a serious threat to the safety of those within the Citadel."

"Why did you leave the courtyard when I asked you to wait? I said that I would not be long," Athos joined in.

"What is this? A pincer movement?" Tréville looked from one to the other of them but Athos was resolutely expecting an answer, even as Aramis seemed to soften a little, an eyebrow raised for he, too, was waiting for the Captain to justify himself. "All right, I did not wait and began to walk down to the quayside; that was when I saw Savatier and gave chase." He saw the exchange between the other two men and cut them off before either of them could remonstrate with him. "And if I had stayed put as you wanted, I would have missed him and he possibly would have been successful in his escape."

There was no denying that point but what was also left unsaid was that, had Tréville not engaged with his former lieutenant, they might have later captured the man and brought him to some form of justice, rather than having him lost to the sea.

III

Over the next few days, the Citadel fell back into an uneasy routine. The increased guard duties were maintained whilst others lined the ramparts when there were sudden but short-lived bursts of activity from the English camp when their musketeers opened fire upon the French defences and the small canon were brought into play. No damage was inflicted upon the Citadel and no harm was done to the men within its walls; it was as if Buckingham wanted to remind them of his continued presence without wasting too much ammunition.

The defenders were hardly likely to forget as their stores were rapidly depleted. Some of the men took to fashioning rods and lines and occupied themselves with fishing from the quayside but they were never going to produce sufficient for the occupants of the fortress and the few fish they did manage to catch were too small to assuage their mounting hunger. Rumours rapidly spread that soldiers were beginning to set traps for rats and roasting them over open fires but somehow no one was ever witness to this.

Tréville, fully recovered from his encounter with Savatier, started to spend more and more time shut away with Toiras, giving birth to varied speculation that they were either going to take the fight to Buckingham, thereby sending him back to his ships and away from French waters, or, as was more likely, the Governor was preparing to surrender.

Athos and Aramis gave little heed to what they were hearing and certainly did not care. Their attention was fixed solely upon their brother and they refused to move from his side; even the Captain ceased to find alternative things to take Athos from the infirmary.

For three days, Porthos seemed to rally, firing Athos with a renewed optimism, but Aramis refused to comment; he had seen such brief improvements too many times and he did not want to dash his brother's hopes so he maintained his own counsel. Although far short of a full recovery, Porthos slept less, chatted more and sipped at the water given him, even managing to swallow a few mouthfuls of a thin meat broth that Serge, on the Captain's orders, kept solely for the infirm. The griping stomach cramps that had left the big man whimpering on occasions seemed to have eased and his fever dropped a little.

But Aramis' reticence was soon proved to be correct.

The deterioration on the evening of the third day began with a general sense of malaise; Porthos fell silent as if the effort of saying anything was suddenly too much. He was listless and refused food and would have refused the water too had not Athos and Aramis argued with him, pleaded and cajoled, spooning the water between his parched lips. When his fever raged once more, they worked together, bathing him in cold water that one of them had freshly drawn from the well. Then they soaked a sheet in a bucket, wrapping him in it and repeating the process in a vain attempt to relieve the heat that emanated from him. He was oblivious to their ministrations when the watery, blood-stained diarrhoea poured from him, or when one held his head and the other a bowl as bouts of agonised vomiting and repeated dry heaves when his stomach was empty left him barely conscious. They alternated snatching brief periods of sleep on a mattress on the floor by the bed, fearful of straying too far, and starting awake when the crippling pain had Porthos curling into a foetal position, arms wrapped tightly around his body and crying out in a manner that was so uncharacteristic of him that it frightened them both, although neither would admit it.

Exhausted from very little sleep for too long and his nerves shredded with worry, Aramis looked haunted. Dark rings circled his eyes and his skin was sallow, waxen-looking. When Porthos ceased eating, so did Aramis. It was not deliberate but he had lost all appetite and the limitations in the food stock meant that the one meal to which they were now restricted held no appeal so it became easier for him to politely decline Athos' attempts to press him to have something. It was always the same excuse – that he would eat later but Athos knew that was not the case.

One afternoon, Athos looked at the meagre offering on the plate he held. He was sitting beside Porthos, who had not shown signs of being conscious for several hours, suspended as he was in a strange state of being no worse but definitely being no better. Athos began to raise a morsel to his lips when he sighed and threw it back down in disgust.

Aramis had gone to a side room some time before to make a herbal draught but had not returned. Athos frowned, puzzled at what was taking so long so he decided to go and investigate.

He moved quietly from habit rather than a desire to remain unannounced so that his friend did not hear him approach. He was struck, therefore, when he saw Aramis, back to the door, leaning on the table, his head bowed and his shoulders visibly shaking. He was weeping.

"Aramis?" Athos said softly, disturbed by what he saw.

Immediately the other musketeer straightened, sniffed loudly and swiped at his eyes, the gesture angry. He did not turn round when he spoke, his voice a mixture of despair and anger.

"I have nothing else to give Porthos or the others. Anything that is remotely helpful has all been used. I have managed to do little and now I can do even less. I have never felt so utterly useless as I do right now."

Athos carefully advanced and laid a hand on Aramis' arm. "You are not useless; you have done so much in caring for Porthos and the other men. The lack of herbal ingredients is none of your doing; you cannot hold yourself responsible."

Aramis shrugged off the hand and stepped away, beyond reach, beyond consolation for he felt so undeserving. "But I do hold myself responsible. Maybe I could have used the ingredients differently, different combinations, different amounts. I just don't know. All I am sure about is that I have nothing to bring our brother any relief as he lies dying."

"No!" Athos recoiled, not wanting to hear the word spoken aloud as if, by not saying it, it could never come to pass. "You cannot give up on him. Porthos is a fighter."

Suddenly, aggressively, Aramis grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to the open doorway and pointed to the cot where Porthos lay, eyes closed and so still that it was as if he had already left them.

"I am not giving up on him; I am facing reality and you need to start doing it as well. We are about as close to losing him as we have ever been. Look at him, Athos; look at him properly. Where is the fighter now? He is but a shadow of the man I know and love, an empty shell. Where is his energy? His zest for life? What I would not give to hear his laugh; to hear his ribald jests; be at the mercy of his teasing. That is what I am trying so hard to remember and it is fading, along with him."

"Your prayers …" Athos began, stunned by his friend's ferocity.

"My prayers!" Aramis almost spat the words out in a manner so alien to the usually devout man. "I have been praying for him every minute I can since the first day he fell ill but my prayers are apparently going unheard at present. Obviously God and I are on different pages of the book, only He hasn't got to the part where Porthos wakes up and begins to recover."

Athos was lost for words. Events in his life had conspired to shatter any deep-seated belief he had once held and he spent little time now even speculating on the existence of a loving and merciful God, but he knew how importantly Aramis viewed his own faith and to hear such a disrespectful attack on the Almighty only highlighted the fear Aramis had for Porthos' survival. He depended upon the knowledge that his brother's faith held strong, no matter what, and this change shook his own foundations. The marksman had always been so strong, save for the Savoy incident, that to see him crumbling now was more than Athos could stand. He wanted – needed – Aramis to say that Porthos would get well for he could not even begin to imagine a life without the steadying presence of the big man. When he had been on his own downward path of self-destruction, Porthos had always been there, minding him, caring for him, protecting him when he picked fights with anyone he could find and even withstanding the physical blows Athos had unfairly dealt when the self-loathing, reproach and frustrations threatened to overwhelm him. At that moment, Athos felt as if he were drifting helplessly, directionless, or else caught in some nightmarish limbo where he could not, and dare not, face what might come.

"He _will_ get well," he whispered as if, by repeating the words often enough, he could make it happen.

Aramis looked directly at him for the first time, the unbridled anger draining away and leaving him sad. "Oh, Athos," he reached out and cupped the back of the man's neck with a trembling hand. "If he survives until the morning, it will be a blessing, one more day and it will be a miracle. If he gets through that, then – and only then – might I start to think that he has beaten this and will recover. But there are many hours between now and then, and anything might happen."

IV

Toiras looked at the parchment that Tréville had handed him and read the information written on it with a childlike, spidery hand. Serge had never managed to control his letters properly but they were at least legible.

The news was not good and Toiras ran a tired hand over his face as he gathered his thoughts. Laying the parchment down on his desk top and straightening it with obsessive deliberation, he took a shaky breath and looked up to where Tréville stood, hands clasped behind his back and his face grim. The captain could well anticipate what the announcement was going to be. It was inevitable and a decision that he was glad was not his to make.

"As Governor of this island and, more importantly, the present commander of this besieged garrison, I cannot, in all conscience, inflict greater suffering upon the people within these walls. I will not subject them to a slow starvation just in case relief from the mainland manages to penetrate the English blockade. We have to face it; the English are not about to leave, especially after the last arrival of reinforcements. That eases the burden of the numbers of men they have lost. As we have witnessed daily burial details, we can only assume that the sickness has befallen them too. Both sides are in a parlous state but they still outnumber us greatly and they have access to a supply chain that we do not."

Toiras stood and pulled on the front edges of his doublet for he understood the full import of what he was about to say.

"Tomorrow, Tréville, you will go as my representative to the Duke of Buckingham in order to negotiate our terms of surrender."

The Musketeer Captain slowly let out the breath that he had been holding. So it was to end like this; starved into submission, sickness rife amongst their ranks, expected to hand over all armaments and, in all likelihood, to be held as prisoners of war within the walls they had attempted to defend for so many long weeks.

Toiras had not entirely finished though.

"I have one last idea. I want three volunteers. Go and sound out the men and bring them back to me within the hour."

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **\- Toiras did send an officer to open surrender negotiations with the English.**_

 _ **\- He did ask for three volunteers for one last task.**_


	50. Chapter 50

_**Dear all, apologies for the wait this week. It had not been my intention to leave it so long before finishing and uploading this chapter but real life intervened as we hurtle towards the end of term (one more week to go) and there were deadlines this week for end of year reports and assessment marking. All good fun and thank you for being patient! Many thanks to all who responded and commented upon the last chapter.**_

 _ **Here we find out just what it is that Athos is getting himself into!** _

CHAPTER 50

I

Athos was drawing water from the well to take back to Porthos when word came that an additional muster had been called for ten minutes later as Captain Tréville wished to address them en masse. At that point he was speaking to the infantrymen elsewhere.

Returning the bucket to Aramis, Athos swiftly explained that he was going back outside to hear what the musketeer officer had to say. He stood by the door through which the Captain would appear, lounging against the wall and arms folded in a casually familiar stance as Tréville emerged and crossed to the steps leading up to the battlements. Going up several, he turned so that he could gaze down upon the gathered throng and, in doing so, he saw Athos in the background.

Briefly passing on Toiras' call for volunteers, he announced that the added proviso was that whoever came forward must be a strong swimmer. Further details would be given to those selected. Tréville headed back towards the door and had to pass the young musketeer, who pushed himself away from the wall as the officer approached.

"I am volunteering," Athos said simply.

Tréville stopped, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the younger man. "You do not know what it is for."

"Does any man yet who answers the call? Is the task so onerous that details are not being revealed until after the volunteers have committed themselves?" Athos asked.

"I do not think the Governor is callous enough to make a man follow through with his offer once he knows what is being asked of him. For many, it would be beyond their capabilities; for those who continue, it may well remain beyond their capabilities too."

Athos searched the older man's eyes as if he could read the message that lay behind them. "You are asking for strong swimmers. I am one."

Tréville glanced about him to ensure that no-one was close enough to hear what he had to say but he still lowered his voice for surety. "Perhaps, but we need swimmers who have both strength and endurance."

Athos raised an eyebrow questioningly as he considered what he had heard.

"Join me in the Governor's office and you will be fully informed," said Tréville, refusing to be drawn any further.

His head and his heart were at serious odds with each other. His head knew only too well that Athos was probably the best of the musketeers for what lay ahead and he was fully cognisant of the fact that the young man was purportedly a strong swimmer, but was he strong enough? That was when Treville's heart ruled and he wanted, more than anything, to refuse to allow Athos to proceed in what was undoubtedly a dangerous mission, to hold him back, to order him to return to the infirmary and sit in safety with Porthos and Aramis.

But he knew he could not do that because he was Captain of the King's Musketeers. The Governor had asked for volunteers and one of the King's men, one of _his_ men, had responded. It was only to be expected of them. He had no doubt that more would have stepped forward had there not been the need for the individual to be a swimmer; it was a sad fact that not all of his musketeers had that particular skill but then again, it was not often called upon for their line of work.

In the end, eight men, including Athos, stood to attention before the Governor's desk and waited for him to speak. Given the seriousness of what he was asking, Toiras rose to be at eye level with the brave men who stood before him.

"Gentlemen, I thank you for being prepared to undertake a highly dangerous feat on behalf of the men – and women and children – who find themselves within these walls. You must, by now, have realised that our food supplies have almost gone. We are but a few days away from capitulation to the English. Indeed, I have instructed Captain Tréville here to attend upon the Duke of Buckingham on my behalf tomorrow to begin surrender negotiations."

He waited whilst the gathered men reacted. All had suspected that submission was imminent but it was one thing to think it and something else to have it spoken aloud, not as a possibility but as something that was inevitable, and it left a sour taste in the mouth.

"Whilst those negotiations are underway, I have a task for three volunteers. It goes without saying that I am proud of each and every one of you for being prepared to carry out this mission but it is not enough to seek men who are merely swimmers. You know that the English blockade the harbour and are vigilant along the coast of Ȋle de Ré, preventing us from leaving even if we had the means, and ensuring that ships from the mainland cannot render us any assistance. It is incumbent upon us to get word to the King and Cardinal Richelieu at La Rochelle of the dire state in which we find ourselves. I need three of you to swim to the mainland, a distance well in excess of twelve kilometres. The waters are cold, the tide strong and I cannot guarantee that the weather will hold. Whatever happens, you must leave at first light tomorrow."

The men looked at each other, some a little more nervously than others, and Tréville noted with pride that Athos, the only musketeer amongst them, stood stoically, not revealing what he was thinking at all. Toiras smiled reassuringly.

"If you know that you cannot complete the distance, then I ask you to leave now. Be assured that I do not think any the less of you."

There were mutterings and murmurings from some of the men and, reluctantly, some bowed awkwardly and headed towards the door. Tréville was not surprised to see that Athos did not even move an inch.

Three men remained; Athos and two others.

Toiras resumed his seat, immediately business-like. "You will report to the King that we are close to surrender, a week at most. Explain what has been happening and that we now protect a number of women and children. We must have immediate aid if the Citadel is not to fall into enemy hands; there needs to be a concerted effort to breach the blockade from the mainland."

He sat back and surveyed the three men who stood before him; one musketeer, a soldier from the other cavalry regiment and an infantryman from their uniforms.

"I have asked for three of you for obvious reasons; it is imperative that at least one of you succeeds in the task to update the King on what has transpired. It is not much but you will be given an additional meal so when you are dismissed, Captain Tréville will escort you to the kitchen where you will be fed. I would just ask that you do not speak of it; I am sure your colleagues would understand the need for the extra food but it might initiate unrest in a few. Until tomorrow then, gentlemen. I shall join you at the harbour at dawn. Rest well."

The men muttered their thanks and followed Tréville down to where Serge, already primed, was awaiting them with full bowls of steaming stew containing more meat than they had seen for weeks. None of them asked what it was, suspecting that a valuable horse had been sacrificed to provide them with a meal of substance. The Captain stood, the cook beside him, and watched as the men ate, two of them heartily mopping up the meat juices with chunks of bread torn from a loaf on a wooden trencher set before them. Athos ate carefully, slowly and almost with disinterest and Tréville readied himself for a verbal sparring match to ensure that the man ate what had been provided for him. Insufficient rations must have had a detrimental effect on energy levels and muscle function so that the Captain feared that one additional meal, no matter how wholesome, was unlikely to rectify the deprivation. Stomachs would have contracted somewhat and although two of the men were wolfing down food and seeking seconds, he was worried that their bodies would rebel.

"Easy, slow down," he admonished them. "There is food enough; making yourselves ill will not achieve anything."

Suitably chastened, the two men were not so frantic in eating and tried to initiate a conversation with the third volunteer.

" _Good luck with that_ ," Tréville thought, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth for he could see quite clearly from the body language that Athos was not in a sociable mood.

The musketeer did identify himself, however, when the others introduced themselves as Hubert and Vasselin but he continued spooning food into his mouth with an agonising slowness, anything to avoid engaging in idle talk, whilst Serge banged pots and plates around.

"Anyone'd think 'e didn't like it," Serge complained bitterly – and loudly enough for Athos to overhear. "I slaved away doin' that, I did. Made it for 'em, special like."

Athos shot him a wary glance and resumed chewing more rapidly as if in an attempt to show his appreciation. His eyes flitted between the old cook and the Captain so that Tréville deliberately turned his back on him in order to give another instruction to Serge.

"At eight this evening, I shall ask for him to come to my office on some pretext. Bring his evening meal there and give him my portion too."

If Serge thought of passing any comment on the command, he did not have the chance for, with a nod to the three men, Tréville strode from the kitchen and out into the courtyard.

II

"I thought you had got lost," Aramis said when Athos walked into the infirmary and took a seat at Porthos' side. There was no bitterness or angst in the tone; he was merely making an observation. "What took you so long?" He was so busy bathing Porthos' brow that he did not even turn to look at Athos.

Taking a deep breath, Athos thought of his reply.

"I was doing something for Tréville and the Governor, but that's all done so I am here now."

He might not have opened up to reveal the whole truth but what he had said could not be construed as a lie either; the two officers wanted him to eat and he had eaten. There was no satisfaction in the deliberate deception but Aramis had too much to worry about with Porthos than to burden him with any more concerns and Athos had made a decision. He knew the marksman would do all he could to dissuade him from undertaking the task but someone had to attempt to get the message to the mainland that the Citadel was desperately in need of relief. Seeing Porthos so ill and wasted was enough to convince Athos that the main priority was medical supplies. As far as he was concerned, that was justification enough to take the risk. His brother was dying and in need of help and he was the one who could provide it; it was not open to discussion.

"What was Tréville's urgent announcement then?" Aramis asked, bending to soak the cloth in the cold water before wringing it out, folding it into a strip and laying it on Porthos' forehead.

Athos watched the action. "He has been ordered by Toiras to begin surrender negotiations tomorrow with the English."

"We thought it was going to happen, but why muster the men?" His hands now free and not otherwise distracted, Aramis looked at him.

"I suppose they deemed it only right that they announced what was going to happen. Some arrangement will need to be made if we are all to become prisoners." Athos leaned forward, took one of Porthos' hands in his and stroked the dry, papery skin with his thumb as if absent-mindedly.

Aramis snorted his disdain. "We have been prisoners in here since the day the siege started."

"You know what I mean. We would be prisoners of war."

Aramis sighed, his attention fixed upon the limp hand that Athos held. "I know what you mean. I just hope for all our sakes that the English have some common decency and will provide us with food and the medical resources that we need." He thought for a moment. "Is that all it was about?"

Athos hesitated. "No, the Governor was wanting some volunteers for something but he has his three now and thinks that is enough." There was no way that he was going to admit to being one of the three and he hoped that Aramis would not pursue the subject any further.

At that moment, Porthos groaned and he struggled to open his eyes. It was the distraction that Athos had hoped for as, together, he and Aramis coaxed some sips of water into their sick brother and yearned for it to stay down.

Minutes passed and there was no sign of the horrifying retching that had left Porthos so debilitated. The minutes passed into half an hour and then an hour.

"Please, God, let this be a sign that Porthos has turned the corner," Aramis pleaded as he dared to trickle another spoonful past the parched lips.

"Amen," whispered Athos, just softly enough that Aramis would not hear him.

III

Tréville kept his word and summoned Athos to his office at about eight in the evening and made him sit as Serge placed another full bowl of food before him but he just stared at it.

"Eat," Tréville urged, picking up the spoon that lay on the table and holding it out towards Athos' right hand. When he still did not respond, Tréville sighed. "You have to eat; you need to build up your energy."

Athos turned stricken eyes upon him. "I have already had an extra meal; this is the equivalent of another two. How can I sit here and eat when people within this Citadel are hungry, when men have fallen ill because they have been unable to ward off sickness? When one of them is Porthos and Aramis has sat diligently beside him? It is Aramis at least who should be given this."

Tréville knew that he was not going to encourage the young man to partake of the much needed food until the situation was rectified and he nodded sharply to Serge who remained standing by the door. "Do it."

Serge had barely opened the door when Athos spoke. "Make some excuse as to why you're giving it to him but under no circumstances are you to mention that I have volunteered to swim to the mainland. He is to know nothing of that."

The Captain waited until Serge had gone. "You have not told Aramis yet about volunteering for this?"

"No," Athos said evasively. "There is time enough to do that before dawn."

Under Tréville's watchful eye, he began to pick at the food but the heaped bowl held no interest for him. He was still replete from the earlier meal for his stomach had contracted with the rationing and although he knew the extra food was a well-intentioned, practical gift, he was already feeling uncomfortable with the thought of forcing more down.

Tréville seemed to understand his reluctance. "I know the additional food is probably too little, too late, but we want to give you every chance possible to make the mainland." There was a pause and, when he spoke again, there was an undeniable pain in his voice. "Why did you do it, Athos? Why volunteer? Why do you always put yourself to the fore when there is danger?"

Athos, surprisingly, gave a soft, hollow laugh. "I did not see the volunteers queuing at the Governor's door. There were eight of us and even then, only three of us think – hope – we can last the distance."

"And can you? Honestly? Last the distance, that is?"

Athos fixed unwavering eyes on the older man's face. "We will find out tomorrow." When Tréville gave a low moan, he continued, "I have swum considerable distances but not this far in one attempt and not for a very long time." Suddenly, his face took on a far-away expression as he thought back to a life before the musketeers and the Captain could not help but wonder just what memories had been stirred.

"You did not have to do this," the older man reiterated.

Athos was brought back to the present with a jolt. "I know but I have to believe that I can do it, that I can reach the King and petition him for help for the Citadel." He took a shuddering breath as a more pressing reason rose to the fore. "I cannot just sit and watch Porthos die. You and Aramis might both say that I am being a coward and perhaps I am, but this way, I can attempt to bring him some relief, even if I have to swim back again with the necessary medicines in a waterproofed bag on my back. At least I feel that I am doing something constructive for him and Aramis, you and the other musketeers and then the Citadel." He gave a small smile. "In that order! Please accept and understand why I have to do this for if I know that you do, then I also know that you are the best person to explain this first to Aramis and, when he is better, Porthos."

"I think you imbue me with more influence over your friends than I have," Tréville smiled weakly.

Athos shook his head adamantly. "On the contrary, it will be better coming from you; I know it."

The two men fell silent, each lost in his own thoughts and fears about what the new day might bring. Athos' admission that he did not know whether or not he had the strength and stamina to swim to the mainland was a chilling reality and however much Tréville tried to reason with the marksman about Athos' departure, the Captain knew that Aramis would give him a very hard time as a result.

More than that, Tréville did not dare think what would happen to Aramis - whether or not he would ever recover - if Athos were to perish in French waters and Porthos finally succumbed to the deadly sickness. The young musketeer had survived the injury and psychological trauma of the Savoy massacre when so many of his brothers-in-arms had been slain but the loss of these two men, as close as blood brothers would be, might prove to be a loss too great. The Captain hoped and prayed that he would never have to find out.

IV

As he crossed the courtyard to the infirmary, Athos fought to adopt a calm demeanour for he did not want to alert Aramis to the fact that anything might be wrong or that he was planning to do something so utterly foolhardy. However, his enforced optimism was immediately dashed when he discovered that Porthos had suffered a renewed bout of sickness, losing the little liquid that his friends had encouraged him to swallow throughout the second half of the day and now, despite all of Aramis' pleas, he was categorically refusing even sips of water.

Aramis was at breaking point with exhaustion and worry, and Athos had to physically guide him from his chair and push him down onto the pallet beside Porthos' cot.

"You need to try to rest. Shut your eyes and relax at least," he continued hurriedly for he knew that Aramis was about to protest when he took a sharp intake of breath. "I am here now and more than able to see to Porthos' needs through the night." Once more he pre-empted a comment. "Of course I shall wake you if he seems any worse, if I think I cannot cope for whatever reason or, more than likely, when he stirs of his own volition and seems much better."

He tried to sound positive and perhaps Aramis was too distracted to notice any of the subtle nuances of Athos' behaviour, expression and tone that might have suggested otherwise. Instead, ignoring his own weariness and the fact that he should be getting whatever rest he could, it had been an easy decision to make that now, for one last night, he would be the one watching over his two brothers.

It did not take long for Aramis to cease his fidgeting and for his breathing to slide into the easy rhythm accompanying much-needed sleep. Athos stood, picked up the tangled blanket that lay on the floor and shook it out. Tenderly, carefully, he laid it over the musketeer in an effort not to disturb the sleeping man before turning back to resume bathing Porthos' fevered brow.

As he began his lonely vigil, he deliberately tied to blot from his mind all thoughts of their brotherhood: how they had met, how they had become friends, and how the obvious yet unlikely bond between them had deepened as the months evolved into years and they shared so many experiences – the good as well as the bad. He dare not dwell upon those memories for he knew they would be his undoing.

As the night wore on and there was a change of duty in those who were helping in the infirmary, Athos recognised Poitier and felt a pang of regret that the last time he had spoken to the other musketeer, he had threatened him. It was a recollection still at the front of Poitier's mind as he visibly recoiled when Athos approached him and asked that he take over watching Porthos when Athos had to leave before dawn. Word had spread about the volunteers though and Poitier, knowing the commitment that Athos had made, was delighted to be asked and only too pleased to be able to comply.

When the first fingers of light in the east became discernible, Athos rose from his seat and stretched to ease the stiff ache from his limbs. Crouching next to Aramis, he reached out a hand as if to touch the still shoulder but then seemed to think better of it. Although exhausted, Aramis could be a light sleeper if occasion warranted and Athos could not afford him stirring and asking awkward questions.

Straightening, he went to Porthos and stroked the hot forehead lightly. Several hours had now passed since the big man's last moments of lucidity. Tears welled in Athos' eyes for he did not want what was possibly his last memory of Porthos to be of this wasted stranger, drained of his enthusiasm for life. He bent swiftly, his lips brushing the man's brow as his hand cupped a roughened cheek, the beard untrimmed.

He stayed leaning close as he whispered. "Take care, my brother. Know that I love you, both of you, and that I go willingly on this task for you. Do not give up; continue to fight this thing. I refuse to say farewell and, who knows, maybe the fates will allow us to be together again soon."

Straightening up, he nodded to Poitier who had come to stand at the foot of the bed and now eased himself into the chair so recently vacated. At the door, Athos paused and looked back towards his two brothers, men who had come to mean more to him than life itself, who had inveigled their way into his existence in a manner that, at one time, he would never have thought possible. Having refused to say the word 'farewell' aloud, it now came unbidden to his mind and he swiped angrily at the lone tear that tracked its way down his face as he slipped out into the night.

 _ **A/N Just a brief thank you to Wimbledon, no less, for the surnames of the other two volunteers. Struggling for new names and too lazy to hit a notebook (where I had such information) that was only on the other side of the room, I was also watching the all French men's doubles finals so I took names from one player from each side of the net. Thank you to Pierre-Hugues Herbert and Edouard Roger-Vasselin.**_


	51. Chapter 51

_**Dear all, many, many thanks for your continued support and words of encouragement. If there are any typos here, please forgive them (and me). Here is a slightly shorter chapter than other recent ones because I did not want to cover more than one central issue – the departure for the mainland – and because you know I love cliffhangers! A fair amount of angst and emotion in this one but I hope you'll not think I have 'overdone' things.**_

CHAPTER 51

Athos was the last to arrive at the quayside and, when he saw Tréville, he was unsure as to whether the Captain was relieved to see him or angry, such was the change in his expression, but the older man successfully schooled his features into something more neutral as Athos approached him. Toiras was speaking to Hubert and Vasselin, no doubt giving them mandatory words of encouragement to which they listened attentively, nodding periodically in agreement.

Both had a small retinue of friends in tow and Athos saw Tréville glance past him in the direction of the walled pathway, as if expecting Aramis to appear at least. He readied himself for the inevitable question.

"The others have not come down?" Tréville queried.

"I have already said my goodbyes," Athos answered honestly, deliberately avoiding the unspoken question and hoping that, for once, the Captain would not pursue matters. He might as well have asked that the sun no longer shine, such was the level of astuteness in the other man.

"I thought you said that Porthos was a little recovered; if not sufficient for him to join you, then I find it hard to believe that Aramis might not have left him briefly to accompany you here."

Athos' face darkened for he did not want to be reminded. "Porthos took another turn for the worse yesterday evening."

Tréville studied the young man before him. It was not unheard of for Athos to refuse to make his usual brazen eye contact and, to those who had come to know him better, avoidance was a sure sign that something was being withheld, particularly when his head dipped defensively as it did now.

"I am sorry to hear that; you could do without such additional worry in your mission." Still Athos would not look up. "I am sure Aramis would have been here had he been able to leave Porthos."

The silence spoke volumes and, in an instant, Tréville understood fully what had transpired.

"You didn't tell him, did you? I should have known that is what would happen when you were so evasive yesterday evening. What did you say to me? 'There is time enough for that before the morning'. Now, even as we speak, Aramis is completely oblivious to what you are planning."

All Athos managed was a barely perceptible nod. Tréville did not know what he wanted to do first. He longed to berate the young man, to challenge his perception of friendship and brotherhood if he thought such silence would spare Aramis any agonies, when once the truth was known and the chance for the marksman to make his peace and say his own farewells had deliberately been denied him. As a result of that, Tréville wanted to grab him and shake some sense into Athos, partly because he wanted to express his own angst – and terror – at the foolhardy task and that led him into his last indecision. He wanted, more than anything, to believe that Athos was capable of the swim for he dare not contemplate the alternative and, to that end, he still wanted to forbid him to make the attempt.

The pair stood, uncommunicative and awkward when they both had so much they wanted to say and for which there might never be another opportunity, although neither of them would voice that aloud.

How could Tréville tell the reticent young musketeer that he had made so much progress since joining the regiment; was well thought of by his peers and showed so much promise for a prestigious military future? That it should not be thrown away so lightly as if it were a trifle? As the regiment's Captain, he did not have favourites and tried to treat them equally but even as he thought it, he knew that he was lying to himself; that this taciturn individual and his two friends had wormed their way under his skin. They were, by far and away, already amongst the best in the regiment and their prospects were more than good; they were his _Inseparables_. He respected them, even though there were the times when their misdeeds gave him an unmitigated headache and, he dared to admit it to himself now as he faced the genuine possibility of losing one or two of them, he felt affection for them. The world would be a quieter, less colourful place if anything adverse were to happen to the group.

How could Athos put into words the love and respect he had for the older man who, when he was at his lowest point, had taken him into the garrison, offered him more than one chance, introduced him to his closest brothers and never gave up on him, even when he had given up on himself?

Hubert and Vasselin were ready and Toiras was making a last declaration of the trio's bravery and the hope with which they imbued the Citadel. Athos hurriedly stripped down to his braies and meticulously folded his leathers and shirt, placing them in a pile on the ground before putting his boots on them and finally, almost in an act of veneration, laying the sacred pauldron on the very top.

"Look after them for me," he said as he straightened up, embarrassed by the sudden blurring of his vision and the broken sound of his voice.

Tréville suddenly realised that he was not sure as to what Athos was referring. "I will keep your uniform in my office for safe keeping until such a time as I will personally strap your pauldron upon you again." He paused, "And I will look after Aramis and Porthos to the best of my ability; you have my word."

Athos nodded, not trusting himself to say anything else as he fought to maintain a calm façade now that the moment had come. He stuck out his hand in an abrupt gesture of formality.

Tréville took it in a firm grip and shook it. "Good luck." Gone was the confident growl of the officer as all that he managed was a tremulous huskiness. Still holding Athos fast by the hand, he did not care who witnessed it as he pulled him into a one-armed embrace and whispered fiercely, "May God watch over you and keep you safe, son."

In an instant, it was over and Athos was released and heading towards the water's edge. Vasselin did something resembling an ungainly belly-flop into the harbour whilst Hubert lowered himself over the edge and hung there for a few moments before letting go and dropping backwards into the sea. Athos did not hesitate or break stride as he reached the side of the quay. His dive was, as with all things, elegant and languorous as he entered the water with minimum fuss and spray, striking out in long, even, unhurried strokes that easily had him catching up with the other two as they headed towards the harbour mouth.

Tréville watched until the trio had disappeared from sight before he bent and picked up Athos' clothes. Hugging them tightly to his chest in an uncharacteristic tenderness, he took them back to his office and opened the empty bottom drawer of his desk. They just fit and he patted them fondly before he closed the drawer, concealing them until they were needed once more, and took up his spyglass. He would head to the battlements and follow Athos' progress until he could see him no more. It did not even occur to him that he had not spared a thought for the other two men who swam with the musketeer.

The swimmers were some distance from the shore and had drawn level with the beginnings of the English camp when Tréville heard the footsteps racing up the steps and along the walkway towards him.

"Tell me what I've heard isn't true," Aramis demanded of him.

"I do not know what it is that you have heard," Tréville began, stalling for time as one look at Aramis told him exactly what had been heard, for the young man's eyes were wild and he ran his hands distractedly through his thick, dark curls.

"That Athos has gone. He's trying to swim to the mainland!"

With calmness that he was not really feeling inside, Tréville handed over the spyglass and pointed in the direction of the three men, little more than dark specks on the blue of the sea. "He's the one out in front," he explained softly.

Aramis seized the proffered implement and raised it to his eye, raking it over the sea until he found the rear swimmer and moved it to the right, past the second and then on to where a familiar, sleek, dark head broke the surface for breath. At the moment, it appeared to be easy – too easy – even as Aramis marvelled at the seemingly effortless strokes that powered Athos through the water in an unhurried fashion, even though each of those same strokes increased the distance between himself and those that came after him. Could he sustain that momentum until he reached the mainland? Did he have the necessary energy levels? Fleetingly, Aramis believed he could and then an anxiety-ridden reality set in. He rounded on Tréville.

"You knew what he was going to do and yet you let him go. You should have stopped him." The young man was angry but the Captain knew better than to take him to task over the tone; it was better, in this instance, that he simply bear the brunt of the ire and calm him down.

"You know I could not stop him. The Governor wanted volunteers and so Athos volunteered to do this. He thought he had as good a chance as any of the others, if not better, to succeed in the task." He tried to keep his voice low, soft, as if taming a young, unbroken colt but his work, as yet, was cut out for him as Aramis responded.

"You of all people know what he's like; how self-destructive he can be! What could possibly be more self-destructive than this fool's suicide mission? You should have stopped him."

Tréville noted the subtle shift in the word. "Yes, I should have ordered him not to go and then what? Never send him on a potentially dangerous mission again? Many of the musketeer missions have an element of danger. What does that do to him then, short of undermining the self-esteem and confidence we have seen slowly growing in him? Will it make him think we do not trust his capabilities in anything?" Tréville sighed and rubbed the back of his neck as if to ease an increasing tension.

"Yes I could have stopped him and dearly wanted to," he continued, "and Toiras would then rightly question my decision-making and suitability to lead men. I wanted nothing more than to keep him safe and, if it would but reassure you a little, there was nothing self-destructive in his decision to go. He was clear headed and very calm when he volunteered."

The Captain took a deep breath before he ploughed on, conscious that Aramis still did not believe him and wondering how his next words would be received. "He went for you and Porthos."

"What?" Aramis thought he had not heard correctly. "How is this helping either of us?"

"You know how to look after Porthos and others. You have a particular set of skills that Athos does not possess. Yes, he can help you if need be but he sees you as having a far deeper ability to care and heal than he does, and he felt helpless. When he realised that you were out of the herbs you required to make the medicine that Porthos needed, he saw the one thing that he could attempt to do to bring you some supplies and relief; he saw, as I do now, how exhausted and worried you are."

Aramis' jaw dropped and he stared in disbelief at the Captain. "And he thinks I will not worry more? Why did he not say goodbye?"

"Do you really have to ask that?" Tréville smiled gently. "Look at how you have reacted to the news. He expected just such a response from you and that you would try your hardest to dissuade him; he did not want that. As to the goodbyes? I think he did say them in his own way whilst you and Porthos were sleeping; you know that he is not demonstrative and finds it embarrassing. What he is doing is arduous and he is painfully aware that he might not succeed. The alternative is both chilling and inevitable if he fails but he feels that he has to try, for you and Porthos and then the rest of us who find ourselves stuck here. We must respect him and allow him that."

At the Captain's words, the anger drained out of Aramis and he slumped with his back against the battlements.

"I wanted the chance to wish him well; to say my goodbye; to tell him that I thought he was an utter idiot for taking the risk; to thank him for being prepared to take that same stupid risk and so many other things," Aramis said quietly.

Tréville reached out and laid a hand on the deflated musketeer's shoulder. "He knows. In his heart, he knows. It was not easy for him to leave either of you like this but he believed it to be the right thing to do; the Citadel needs help desperately from the King and Richelieu and this was the only way. Toiras did not ask it of them lightly."

Aramis still stood with his back to the sea and Tréville was facing him. Suddenly, the older man was distracted and stared intently over Aramis' shoulder out in the direction where the swimmers were making headway towards the mainland. First he frowned and then his expression turned to one of horror as he snatched the spyglass back and raised it.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Aramis demanded, whirling round in an attempt to see with his naked eye what Tréville had noticed. He did not need magnification to realise that several rowing boats had been lowered from vessels in the English fleet and were moving relentlessly towards the swimmers.

" _Mon Dieu!"_ Tréville groaned as he watched the English gaining on the men who were also aware of the enemy pursuit and consequently augmented their efforts and speed in a futile, evasive attempt.

Vasselin, clearly the weakest swimmer of the three, was the first to succumb to his increased labours. Whether it was the result of panic, a sudden onset of cramp, insufficient energy or a combination of all three but he was clearly struggling, floundering in the water and ceased making any progress. Tréville could imagine him shouting for help, his arms above his head as he desperately signalled for assistance. He slipped below the surface of the water and reappeared moments later, his jerking, uncontrolled movements indicative of his indescribable terror. The rowing boats were gaining but were still too far away as he disappeared for a second time.

Tréville scanned the water for the other two. "No, no ,no," he repeated in little more than a whisper. "Don't go back. Keep going."

"What is it? What's happening?" Aramis demanded, his tone picking up on Tréville's trepidation.

"Athos; he's stopped in the water and is looking back to where the last swimmer is in trouble. He mustn't go back." Tréville passed him the spyglass again so that he could see for himself. Leaning against the stonework as if, by doing so, he could lend physical support to his musketeer, he subconsciously bit at the knuckle of a clenched fist.

"He is not; he's swimming on again," Aramis confirmed, his relief evident. "I can't see the other two at all now," he added quietly.

Taking the spyglass back, Tréville searched, thinking that it was in vain but then he saw Hubert, although he did not know of him as such. He, too, was in difficulties now but a rowing boat had broken away from the pursuing group and has heading for him. The Captain searched again for Vasselin and almost missed him as a white face vainly broke the surface and an arm gave a half-hearted wave.

Then he was gone.

Two more boats reached the spot where Vasselin was last seen and Tréville watched as they circled the area but it was in vain. The French soldier had drowned

"The English have just picked up the second one," he maintained his running commentary for Aramis as he observed the occupants of the rowing boat haul Hubert to safety and deposit their captive in the bottom of the small vessel at their feet.

His attention was now focused on Athos who had increased his stroke speed and was trying to stay ahead of the boat that had set off after him. His movement through the water would have been beautiful to behold were it not for the worrying events unfolding behind him as the rowing boat, admittedly with the weight of several men on board, carved its ruthless path through the sea in his wake, the skilled oarsman giving it a practiced momentum.

Even as Tréville watched, a man rose to his feet and gingerly clambered past the rower as he made his way to the bow, whereupon he steadied himself, feet apart to maintain some semblance of balance as he raised a pistol and aimed at the figure in the water ahead of him.

All the Captain could do was stand there helplessly and witness the man open fire upon the defenceless swimmer. There began a merciless attack as the other men loaded pistols and passed them forward for him to use and, in the still of the morning, the sound of weapons fire carried across the water to the ears of the two men on the battlements of the Citadel. Holding his breath, Tréville focused upon the musketeer and saw the various shots slap into the water around the swimmer, some far too close for comfort. Aramis gripped the stonework beside him, face white as he kept an eye on the boats' activities.

Suddenly, Athos disappeared, sliding below the surface of the water. Tréville tensed for he was sure that he had not seen the figure buck as though hit. He heard the report of firearms, saw the tell-tale wisps of smoke from spent weapons and little bursts of spray as the shot entered the water where he had last seen Athos.

"No!" he breathed, scanning the area desperately but seeing no further sign of the musketeer.

"What? What is it? Where is he?" Aramis yelled, sensing that something catastrophic had occurred. He waited impatiently as Tréville continued to search. "Tell me!" he demanded.

As if in slow motion, Tréville lowered the spyglass, his face ashen with shock. "I can't see him."

Aramis snatched the spyglass and began his own frantic search, accompanied by a fraught chant. "No, no, no; this can't be. Where are you, Athos? You're there somewhere. Come on, come on; show yourself. You're a good swimmer; you can do this. Damn it! Where are you? Don't do this. Please, don't do this." This last came out as a whispered plea, his breath catching as he turned and slid down the wall, spyglass held limply in one hand as, with his face buried in the other forearm that rested upon his drawn-up knees, his muffled voice came out in barely suppressed agony.

"He's gone. They must have hit him. Please, God, let it have been quick. Don't let him drown, I beg you."

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **I have made the conscious decision for the events of the latter part of the chapter to happen within view of the Citadel as I wanted Tréville and Aramis to be witnesses and they would at least have had to use the spyglass. I wanted their sense of helplessness to be at the fore.**_

 _ **In reality, I do not know where these events unfolded. They might have been closer to the mainland but it took long enough to find out these sketchy details from different sources so I admit to using some 'artistic and historical licence.'**_

 _ **English rowing boats did spot them and set off in pursuit of the three swimmers.**_

 _ **One of the three did, sadly, drown in the attempt.**_

 _ **The second was in danger of drowning but the English showed some compassion and rescued him from the water. I do not know what happened next to him.**_

 _ **Bizarrely, one or more boats in pursuit of the third figure (a soldier from a regiment in the Champagne district) did open fire upon the man. I am not telling you what happened next – that's chapter 52!**_


	52. Chapter 52

**_Morning, all. This is, by necessity, a somewhat 'bitty' chapter as I wanted to move events along at speed over a period of days so I hope you will bear with me. Thank you for your continued support and lovely comments as guests and 'regular' reviewers. Next chapter will, hopefully, be Sunday evening, travel arrangements permitting._**

CHAPTER 52

I

It fell to Tréville to go to the Governor and report on what he and Aramis had witnessed. Toiras had expressed regret but it was painfully evident that he had no emotional attachment to any of the volunteers, although he did voice commiseration to the captain on "the loss of one of your musketeers." The biggest cause for his subdued manner stemmed from the fact that as it was hard enough to get those volunteers in the first place, they were unlikely to find any more who might stand a chance of successfully repeating the attempt to swim to the mainland.

Tréville was numbed by the helplessness he felt at watching what had happened to the three men; numbed at the prospect of the vast hole left in the wake of the vicious attack on Athos and numbed by the wave of grief that had subsequently consumed Aramis as a result of having seen what had been done to his brother. Time had elapsed but eventually Aramis recovered his composure sufficiently to return to Porthos' side, although he was adamant that he was not telling the sick musketeer of anything that had occurred until absolutely necessary.

The first thing Tréville did on returning to his office was to sit at his desk and open the lower drawer where he had stored Athos' uniform for safekeeping with the best of intentions, less than three hours beforehand. He tried to ignore the trembling of his hand as he retrieved the worn pauldron and, with a forefinger, traced the scarring on the leather, evidence of the skirmishes in which Athos had engaged and from which he had emerged largely unscathed. How was it then that this young musketeer, so loyal and committed to his brothers, the regiment and France, could have perished in such a desultory manner?

Tréville blinked rapidly to ignore the burning sensation in his eyes and the thoughts that kept coming to mind, chastising him; "You knew this would happen. You had the power to stop this foolhardiness and yet you did nothing. The boy's dead and you could have prevented it. This is your fault; your fault that he is gone and your fault that Aramis suffers so. If Porthos dies as well ..."

He dare not finish the thought.

II

Aramis sat beside the sleeping Porthos, unseeing and unmoving. In his mind's eye, he replayed the moments over and over when he had desperately scoured the surface of the sea for any trace of Athos but to no avail. In the time that had passed since, he had experienced a gamut of emotions until this point, when he felt nothing. Blanking out all thoughts of the times they had shared and what would be missing in the future was his coping strategy, at least for the moment. It might be that he would never have to communicate the devastating news to Porthos and he did not know whether or not to be relieved at being spared the responsibility.

He was roused from his reverie by movement on the cot and a low groan. Sitting forward, he reached out a hand and let it rest on Porthos' brow, reassured by the absence of fever.

"Come on, big man," he urged, trying to contain the resurgence of optimism. "Open those eyes and look at me. I am more than a little bored with my own company."

He watched and waited patiently as lids fluttered open, shut and opened once more. Smiling encouragingly, his hand slid down the side of Porthos' face and cupped a cool cheek, noting how the musketeer blinked repeatedly in an effort to bring the world into focus.

"Are you with me now?" he asked softly.

Porthos attempted to answer in the affirmative but his voice, so little used for so long, came out as a dry-throated croak so he opted for a slight nod instead. Chuckling – a noise Aramis knew he had not made for a while – he took up a cup of water, raised Porthos' head and put it to his lips. "Not too much now, just sip it."

Even that taxed the big musketeer's limited strength and, after little more than enough to wet his lips, he turned his head a fraction, a signal to Aramis to lay him down again and he sank back onto the pillow with a contented sigh.

"How do you feel?" Aramis asked tentatively.

"Like all the horses from the garrison stable have trampled me," came the harsh whisper in response. To Aramis, though, it was the sweetest sound he could ever want to hear and he dared to hope that, this time, his friend really had beaten the sickness that had threatened to overwhelm him.

Then Porthos asked his own question.

"Where's Athos? Runnin' around for Tréville an' the Gov'nor again?"

III

It was early afternoon when Tréville was led into Buckingham's command tent.

"Captain Tréville!" The effusive outburst came from the English Duke who leapt up from his chair and rounded his desk, hand outstretched as he warmly greeted the French soldier in a manner more befitting a friend whom he had not seen for a long time rather than the officer from the defeated Citadel, seeking negotiation for capitulation.

But Tréville had met Buckingham before at the French court just over two years earlier when the marriage had been arranged between Louis' younger sister and the English King. The Duke had been much impressed by the Bourbon monarch's personal regiment and formed a plethora of questions to ask the Captain, vying for the officer's time as he sought information which Tréville furnished within reason.

The Duke shook his hand enthusiastically and indicated a chair for him to sit, prior to giving an order for refreshments to be served. Tréville tried to maintain a calm air, uncomfortable with the Duke's affability. The brusque soldier was not there to exchange social niceties but to discuss serious business and, in his current mood, he wanted to dispense with it as quickly as possible. If not the Duke of Buckingham himself, then someone acting on his behalf had issued the order or taken matters into his own hands to fire indiscriminately into the water at an unarmed man. He wondered what had happened to the other French soldier who had been dragged from the water onto another boat but realised that it was not pertinent to seek such information at this delicate stage of the proceedings.

It was not long before he was sipping at a fine claret and listening to the Duke expound upon the practicalities of the siege and praising the bravery of those who had held out within the walls of the Citadel until the need for food and medical supplies had pushed them into surrender talks.

Unwilling to conclude details in haste, Buckingham requested that Tréville return at the same time on the following day and so the Frenchman went back to Toiras with nothing on offer.

"No matter," the Governor said later, more blithely than Tréville expected. "You will go back to the Duke tomorrow and continue negotiations. That gives you and me time to discuss our potential demands."

"Demands?" Tréville was incredulous. "Do you really think that we are in any position to make demands given the circumstances?"

"But of course, and when Buckingham rejects them, he will make a counter offer which we will turn down; anything that enables us to stall for more time." Toiras seemed pleased with himself.

"Why are we stalling for time?" Tréville was beginning to think that he was missing something crucial from the conversation.

"For help to come from the mainland, of course," Toiras said patiently.

"But I thought you had discounted the notion of seeking any more swimmers to attempt reaching the coastline?"

"I have, Captain."

"But then what ..." Tréville began.

Toiras interrupted him. "Whilst you have been meeting with Buckingham, I have been thinking. We cannot give up on your man. He may still have been successful. Just because you did not see him surface does not mean that he didn't and there have been no reports of a body being sighted since then. You said yourself that the English rowing boats turned almost immediately after their attack and headed back to the fleet."

It crossed Tréville's mind that perhaps the English did not need to remain as they could see from their position what he could not and he wanted, more than anything, to adopt the Governor's newfound optimism but he feared giving into false desires, feeling unable to cope were his hopes to be dashed a second time.

IV

Tréville stood outside the infirmary, hand poised over the doorhandle for he did not want to be told any more dispiriting news but he was sure that Aramis would have come and sought him out fairly quickly if anything adverse had happened to Porthos. Taking a deep breath, he pushed open the door and entered.

The sight that met his eyes brought a spontaneous smile to his face.

Porthos was semi-propped up on pillows as Aramis spoon-fed him what looked like a thin-broth. The marksman, bowl in hand, stood to greet the officer as he approached and Tréville was pleased to see him give a broad grin. Aramis gestured to his vacated seat and used it as an excuse to perch on the side of the cot, thereby placing him closer to his friend. Tréville repositioned the chair slightly and lowered himself, his hand on Porthos' shoulder as he did so.

"It is good to see you awake and looking better," he said genuinely, his gaze flitting between the two men.

"Good to be feeling better," Porthos admitted with a wry smile.

"Porthos has been dozing on and off since late this morning but each time he is awake, it's for a longer period, although he is not hi usual chatty self as yet. He has been drinking water and now has had some broth," Aramis explained, a little too eagerly, or so Tréville thought as the younger man maintained a determined eye contact. The unspoken message that he was so keen to communicate was clear; it was now Aramis withholding information from the ill man. He had said nothing about Athos.

"I am pleased to hear it," Tréville said encouragingly. "Continue like this and we will soon have you back on your feet and, eventually, returned to light duties."

"I probably sound mad sayin' it but I'd welcome it. I'll get bored otherwise," Porthos said earnestly.

Aramis gave a low laugh. "Try recovering properly first; there's no hurry. It is not as if we are going anywhere soon." His attention was fixed upon the Captain. "Are you at liberty to say anything about your meeting earlier today?"

"What meeting was that?" Porthos asked, eager to catch up on events that may have occurred during his illness.

Tréville grew serious once more. "It was inconclusive. The Duke of Buckingham has requested that I go back to him tomorrow to resume discussions relating to our surrender."

Porthos whistled in surprise. "We're surrenderin'? What's brought that about?"

Aramis indicated the populated infirmary. "All of you currently in here and adjacent rooms. There are too many of you and we have no helpful medication. Add to that our severe lack of food and you might see that our position is untenable."

"Not good then," Porthos summarised. His eyes narrowed. "Just how many of have taken sick now an' how many haven't made it?"

Aramis rolled his eyes. "Too many to count now have fallen ill. By yesterday morning, the sick had reached three figures; fatalities seem to have stayed at twenty-one so far for the past two days."

Silence ensued as the three men pondered the dead and the dying, each of them thankful that Porthos had not been counted amongst the losses.

At length, Aramis stood and stretched to ease the aches that had settled across his shoulders. "You need to rest now. There is no point tiring yourself unnecessarily; we need to build up your strength and energy levels."

He held up the sheet and blanket as Porthos slid further down the bed, covering him gently as he settled. Already the big musketeer's eyes were heavy as sleep began to claim him but he still had that one question that was troubling him.

"Thought ol' Athos'd be 'ere by now. What's he doin' that's keepin' him so long or has he fallen sick too?"

"Duty calls," Aramis said, trying to keep his voice as light as possible. He's busy for now; maybe tomorrow." He glanced warily at Tréville, hoping that the Captain would support the subterfuge. Fortunately, Porthos was too drowsy to notice anything amiss and his breathing had soon fallen into the regular and easy rhythm of one who was sound asleep.

"You will have to tell him tomorrow," Tréville said as the pair strode out into the cool night air.

"I know," Aramis sighed, "but at least I have tonight to think of _how_ I am going to tell him."

V

Tréville paid another visit to the English camp the next afternoon but the meeting was as brief as the first one when Buckingham requested that Toiras draw up his own terms of surrender.

Bemused, the musketeer Captain relayed the message to the island's Governor. Toiras, however, seemed delighted.

"I will delay a reply to that offer; three days should do it," the Governor said determinedly.

Once Tréville had taken his leave, he shook his head in disbelief. Glad to be an 'ordinary' soldier, he doubted that he would ever fully comprehend the machinations of diplomacy and negotiation.

On entering the infirmary, he decided that he would have preferred to be somewhere else for he knew immediately from the tension in the atmosphere that Aramis had had the difficult conversation with Porthos about what had happened t Athos. The big man sat propped up in bed, arms folded across his chest and staring morosely ahead of him.

As Aramis passed Tréville, jug in hand to replenish the water, he raised his eyebrows in frustration. "Perhaps, Captain, you could explain Athos' reasoning to Porthos the same way as you did to me as he'll not listen to me."

Tréville sighed and moved to sit beside his musketeer and waited until dark, troubled eyes turned on him.

"Aramis tells me he went willingly," Porthos began.

The Captain nodded, thankful to be on more factual ground. "Athos volunteered. He knew he was a strong swimmer and believed he could make the distance; he convinced me of it and, watching him in the water, I could see it. He was the best of the three volunteers, without any shadow of a doubt and none of us could have foreseen what happened with the English. It was enough that they lowered rowing boats and gave chase but something else entirely when they pulled one to safety and decided to open fire on him. It was irrational."

"Cruel more like," Porthos growled.

"I agree," Tréville said. "Athos had his reasons for going. He felt helpless just sitting here; most foodstuffs and medical supplies are exhausted and Toiras, understandably, refuses to head a besieged citadel where people begin to starve to death. I cannot imagine that even Louis or Richelieu would expect that of him, especially if they later discovered how many women and children we now have within these walls. Athos wanted to help you, Aramis and everyone."

There was a long pause. "So Aramis was sayin' but that doesn't make it any easier."

"I know," Tréville conceded, "and I don't have the words to make it any better because, right now, it hurts too much."

At his words, Porthos studied the older man sitting beside him and realised that the grief was not limited to Aramis and him alone and his heart went out to the officer. How many of his men had he lost over the years for it did not seem to get any easier with each man's passing?

VI

Three days later, Tréville went back to Buckingham seeking a further delay on behalf of the Governor, who was in the process of drawing up the details of the surrender. To the Musketeer Captain's surprise, Buckingham chivalrously agreed.

The weather had held fine for several days but the wind had noticeably changed direction, blowing from the mainland rather than towards it. It whipped up the sea into some choppiness, contrasting with the apparent millpond that it had been since the swimmers embarked upon their failed attempt to reach the mainland but there was nothing that would suggest an incoming storm.

Some cloud cover masked the half moon at intervals but not totally so that when the guard on the battlements changed after midnight, a cursory glance seaward by one man saw the movement on the water. More eyes scanned the water and, between them, they saw the advancing flotilla of rowing boats heading straight for the Citadel's harbour.

By the time the alarm had been raised and armed men had mustered to receive orders, the first of the boats were entering the harbour. A double line of infantrymen had taken up position on the battlements whilst a vast number, mainly musketeers, ran at speed with Tréville towards the quayside. Those who could find cover took up their positions whilst the remainder formed two lines, one kneeling and one standing behind them, along the entire length of the quay in readiness to meet the invaders. As the boats drew nearer, the musketeers blew gently on their match cords and a multitude of tiny red dots lined the water's edge.

"Steady, steady," Tréville shouted to the men in close proximity to him. There was little point in being quiet for those approaching could not fail to see them as the cloud cover dissipated and a spectral, silver glow illuminated the quayside. "Wait for my word."

He squinted, his eyes trying to gauge how many boats there were and, from the lead vessel, how many men each might be carrying.

Suddenly, a clear, resonant and gloriously familiar voice carried across the water towards him. Tréville's heart leapt in a mixture of disbelief and overwhelming delight.

"Captain, hold your fire! We bring relief from the mainland. It's me, Athos!"

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **The backwards and forwards negotiations between Buckingham and the French officer (in this case Treville) and Toiras' delaying tactics reportedly happened.**_

 _ **The soldier who swam to the mainland (in this case Athos) did make it - obviously. More on that story later as Athos recounts his swim.**_

 _ **Nearly 40 rowing boats took advantage of a change in the wind direction and did successfully slip through the English blockade. Numbers vary but about 35 made it.**_


	53. Chapter 53

_**Dear all, thank you so much for your great feedback on the last chapter. Of course Athos had to make it! Now he has to survive an angst-ridden confrontation with Aramis!**_

 _ **Apologies for the delay; I have been travelling backwards and forwards between Cambridgeshire and Kent in the last week (major hold-ups en route) with two separate trips to London where I was fortunate enough to have tickets for the National both times to see 'The Deep Blue Sea' and a fascinating backstage tour. I'm a huge fan of the playwright Rattigan and there happened to be a certain somebody in it too; can't quite remember his name ...! Brillliant play with a devastating story, incredible cast and performances, stunning set, slightly different nuances each time resulting in two wonderful evenings out!**_

 _ **On the road again tomorrow and then Sunday so will try to post the next chapter by Monday evening at the latest.**_

CHAPTER 53

I

The next few minutes seemed interminably long as Tréville waited for the first of the rowing boats to reach the quayside. Having dispatched Claude back to the musketeer block to summon Aramis, Tréville deftly caught the rope that was thrown to him and made fast the boat as some of the occupants scrambled to dry land.

"Captain!"

Tréville stood up from where he had been tethering the rope and let his eyes drink in the welcome - yet slightly comic - sight beside him. Clad in an ill-fitting pair of breeches, poorly made shoes, a massive shirt that was grubby and threatened to swamp him, Athos gave a rare, broad smile, his eyes lighting up at the officer's evident surprise and delight.

"Athos!" Tréville dared to breathe his name and, grasping the younger man's hand in his, he pumped it wildly in a joyous reunion. "I have never been so pleased to see someone in my life; we had thought the worst."

Athos nodded. "It was more than a little worrying for a while but then I swam clear."

"It is a tale I want to hear and soon but what is happening here?" He looked at a grizzled older man who came up to Athos.

"This is Captain Gerard who has arranged and led the relief of a few boats here bringing food. Other boats bringing reinforcements are landing overnight at La Prée," Athos explained.

"There is much you have to tell me, it seems," Tréville commented, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully, "but first, you are welcome, Captain," and he extended his hand again, this time to the newcomer.

"Thank you. You must be Captain Tréville of the King's Musketeers; I have heard a lot about you from this young man here," and he slapped Athos on the back in a gesture of camaraderie.

Tréville smiled, especially when he saw the young man's head dip in awkwardness. "Good things, I hope?" he pressed.

"Without a doubt," Gerard responded with a chuckle. "You must raise a tough regiment, Captain, if the resilience of this one here is anything to go by."

"They are tough indeed," Tréville agreed, "but Athos has the ability to move it to a new level at times." He did not want to take anything away from the young soldier's achievement.

"Quite so," Gerard laughed. Older than Tréville and about half a head shorter, his skin was leathered by exposure to the sun, his iron-grey hair cropped short and his beard neatly trimmed. "He's sadly not so tough when it comes to boats though! It is a good thing that he is better in water than on it."

On hearing his words, Athos groaned loudly and Tréville raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"We had hardly left La Rochelle before he was hanging over the side," Gerard snorted in amusement.

Tréville patted Athos' shoulder in sympathetic encouragement. No doubt Gerard was thankful that the musketeer was a soldier and not one of his regular crew. "Never mind, you will soon rediscover your land legs."

"Athos!" a familiar voice bellowed.

The three men turned to see the newcomer striding purposefully in their direction. There was a grim determination about Aramis' movements and a fierce intensity about his features as his hands clenched into fists at his sides. At first sight, Athos began to smile at him but it swiftly faded when he sensed that there was no warm welcome imminent.

"Aramis, wait!" came another voice as Porthos made his way towards them.

The last time Athos had seen him, he was potentially on the verge of death. To see him up and on his feet, although not yet imbued with his usual energy, was such a relief that the breath caught in Athos' throat at the distraction and he took his eyes off Aramis for a moment. That was all that was needed for he did not see the fist coming his way until it was too late.

Catching him off balance, he would have pitched backwards off the quay and into the water were it not for Gerard grabbing him and hauling him sideways where the pair hit the ground in a tangle of limbs. Athos rolled off Gerard and onto his back where he lay, breathing hard as he looked up in bewilderment at his friend just as Tréville, moving to intercept the angry musketeer and holding him back by the shoulders, ordered Aramis to desist.

Struggling to free himself, Aramis' arm shot out and his pointing finger punctuated his choked words. "How could you do this to us? What were you thinking? Why did you not say anything?"

"Hold!" Tréville insisted, clinging on to the squirming figure. "Stop it!"

Behind him, Athos scrambled to his feet, his puzzlement replaced by a blossoming fury as he reached for Aramis, sandwiching the Captain between the two of them. "You ask that of me? The Citadel needed food, medicine, help, anything from the mainland. I believed I could do it and so I did."

"And you nearly died in the doing of it!" Aramis roared.

"Aramis, don't do this, not now," Porthos growled as he finally came up to the belligerent group and laid a hand on his brother's arm until Aramis shrugged him off.

"Yes, 'nearly' is the word. I didn't though, did I?" Athos' voice rose in a challenge.

"Silence, the pair of you, before you say something that you both will regret!" Tréville hissed as he strained to keep the two young men apart.

Five men were now caught in a mocking tableau as Gerard joined the fray. He hung onto Athos' left arm as, pressed against the Captain's back, the musketeer reached with his right under the older man's arm to clutch at Aramis' doublet. Tréville strived to hold the marksman at bay as he gestured wildly over the Captain's shoulder and Porthos tried even harder to restrain him by wrapping an arm around his chest.

"Enough!" Tréville shouted as they continued to argue and they abruptly fell silent, their struggles ceasing at the same time.

Aramis sagged between Tréville and Porthos, the fight having left him. His dark eyes were misty and his voice broke, evidence of the agony he had tried to suppress since that moment when he stood upon the battlements and watched the English go in pursuit of Athos. "I thought you were dead; that I watched you die and I did not have your back."

There lay the crux of it! Already angry with Athos for the unmitigated risk he had taken, Aramis was also angry with Toiras for seeking volunteers in the first instance and then with Tréville for not over-ruling the young man's offer, but all of that angst had paled into insignificance when compared with the gut-wrenching sense of helplessness he had experienced whilst standing on battlements, beyond musket range and unable to protect his brother as he was hunted down by the English.

The silence hung heavily between them all. Tréville, with Athos pressed against his back, felt the shuddering, emotional breath of the young musketeer. There was a shift as Athos straightened and eased back, although his fist remained wrapped in the front of his friend's doublet.

Tréville hesitated before he spoke quietly. "Let them go." The instruction was to Gerard and Porthos and, even as they complied, he stepped sideways from between the two warring friends.

"I thought I saw you die," Aramis repeated in a troubled whisper.

He looked at Athos for a moment and cupped the back of his neck with a hand, drawing him closer until their foreheads touched, an easy gesture with them both being of the same height. Then, unashamedly, he pulled him into a relieved embrace. Athos responded, his arms coming up and enveloping his friend as he held him tight.

"I didn't though. I am here and I am so sorry that I hurt you," Athos said softly in Aramis' ear.

Close enough to just hear their words, Tréville took a further step backwards, sighed and nodded in satisfaction towards Porthos, who wore a wide grin that spoke volumes of his relief now that the conflict was resolved. Approaching his two brothers, he slid his arms around both of them and held them close.

Gerard shook his head in bewilderment. "The impetuosity of youth!" He looked at Tréville. "Are they always like this?"

The musketeer captain shrugged. "Sometimes better; sometimes worse." He clapped a hand on Gerard's shoulder and chuckled. "Take it from me that it is not wise to even try to understand these three. Come, Captain, we will go to see Governor Toiras, he will be eager to know the news. I shall instruct my men to help your crew unload the supplies and show them to the stores."

The two men started in the direction of the main part of the Citadel but Tréville suddenly slowed and called back. "Athos, the Governor will want to hear your report too. You had better attend with us, and bring the other two with you."

II

The six men sat around the large table that stood in the centre of a spacious room that was an ante-chamber to the Governor's office. Toiras presided at the head of the table, Tréville to his right and Gerard to his left. Athos sat beside his captain, with Aramis opposite and Porthos completing the fourth side of the table by sitting at the bottom and facing the Governor. Each had a goblet of red wine set before him and, collectively, they enjoyed bread and a platter of cold meats and cheese that Serge had provided. With the new food supplies having safely arrived, they could afford to ease up on the restrictive rationing, at least for this night as reports were given and subsequent discussions held.

"We are eager to hear your story, Athos," the Governor invited as he raised his glass in the musketeer's direction in a salute that acknowledged his achievement. "We are indebted to your bravery and persistence in reaching the mainland but by all accounts," and his glance slid sideways to include Tréville, "it was not a simple endeavour. I know the Captain here had grave concerns regarding your safety." He gesticulated towards Aramis and Porthos in their seats at the far end of the table, "and I know your friends were worried."

"I dived as deeply as I could and swam until my lungs were bursting so that I had to come up for air. Fortunately, the English had given up and were rowing away. Then I carried onto the mainland and was taken to the King," Athos said. It was his usual, succinct style of report; just the main, relevant facts, devoid of personal response, emotion and any unnecessary elaboration. Tréville avidly studied the grain in the table surface as he concealed his own amused smile, for he had already seen Toiras frown, the Governor cheated from a full-blown story by the musketeer's brief account.

Even Gerard found the explanation too short. "The boy is too modest, Governor Toiras," and he continued Athos' own story. "A musket ball had grazed his left shoulder." He sensed Aramis go tense beside him and was eager to reassure him. "Just a crease, I hasten to add. The length of time he spent in the sea meant that it was at least kept clean for the salt helped, although I expect that it stung like mad. Fortunately the sea was fairly calm that day and the onshore currents would have helped him so that he had just about enough strength to reach the mainland. I gather that he was recovered in a collapsed state from the beach at some point during the afternoon and it was another couple of hours before he was recovered enough to explain that he wasn't a soldier who had gone for a dip and got himself into trouble. Indeed, those who heard his claim of having swum from the island apparently did not believe him at first but when he persisted and his account was unchanged, they thought they had better report his arrival. If he was lying or delusional, then others could determine that.

"The first I heard about it was when the King summoned me for an audience. He, Richelieu and other military leaders were in deep discussions about what was needed and these went on well into the night. They kept Athos with them, firing additional questions at him when they needed additional information. At least by the time I saw him, the graze had been dressed, these ill-fitting garments had been found and food had been brought for him.

"By the following morning, it had been decided that I would lead a group of boats through the blockade at night to Saint-Martin, bringing you vital foodstuffs and medical supplies whilst a second group of vessels carrying reinforcements would prepare to land at the Fort de la Prée as soon as possible. It took us a few days to finalise the details, procure supplies and wait for an advantageous moon and tide."

Gerard sat back in his chair, content that he had given an extended, clearer account of what had been happening on the mainland. "His Majesty and the Cardinal are eager for this siege to be brought to an end and the English, hopefully, deterred from attempting to give any further assistance to the Huguenots. Louis' relations with the English King are, understandably, at a very low point and an all-out declaration of war is to be avoided at all costs so it is of paramount importance that Buckingham should be encouraged to leave sooner rather than later, hence Schomberg's involvement."

"Schomberg is here?" Toiras sounded as if he could not quite believe the development.

"Not yet," Gerard declared. "As I said, he is preparing to land at the other fort within the next few days unless the English fleet decides to offer some resistance."

"How many men is he hoping to land?" Tréville asked, hardly daring to believe that their relief was being brought by such a prestigious military figure. Henri de Schomberg was the Marshal of France.

Gerard knew how important his next words were. "Up to six thousand."

Porthos let out a low whistle as all men around the table reacted to the news and Gerard continued to outline the proposed strategy.

"Schomberg will be trying to cut the English off from their ships. How many men do you have here, Governor? We know from Athos' information that you have had some losses."

Toiras looked to Trévlle for verification and the Captain took up the answer. "We began with about twelve hundred but there were fatalities when the English landed and then more were lost during an attack by archers. Then the Citadel was hit by sickness. Men are weak and malnourished but with good food inside them over the next day or so, we have an operational force of just over a thousand, including cavalry."

"With Schomberg's men, that improves the odds, although Buckingham has also had reinforcements within the last month. We cannot say with any certainty but from the troop movements that we witnessed and the subsequent increase in size of the camp, I would say something in the region of two thousand arrived," Tréville continued.

"Irishmen according to intelligence sources for King Louis. That is not as many as he might have had for which we have much to be thankful." There was a definite note of satisfaction in Gerard's tone. "A Scottish supply fleet carrying five thousand men was broken up by a recent storm off the Norfolk coast."

Tréville sighed, "We would not have stood a chance if the English forces had been augmented to that extent."

"And now we have food," Athos interjected, "so perhaps the tide is turning at last in our favour."

"I would think so," Toiras agreed. "We certainly do not have to surrender in the immediate future. Buckingham will have to wait for a while longer if he intends to starve us out now."

"Or we will force his hand to act precipitously," Tréville ventured, "especially if he gets wind of French reinforcements from the mainland."

"The same sources suggest that he cannot remain here for much longer anyway," Gerard went on. "The financial support for the enterprise has all but run out and no more is going to be forthcoming from Charles. Feeling is running high amongst the nobles and the English Parliament against Buckingham. After the Cadiz debacle and the fact that he has been here in a supposed stalemate for over two months now, they are more than a little reluctant to release additional funds. Rumour has it that he has had to work hard to secure private financial backing thus far in order to keep his army in the field."

"He will not want the siege to continue much longer. We are in early autumn already and he will not be desirous about wintering here," Toiras commented.

"We know he has lost a number of men to sickness for we have seen the mass burials being carried out beyond the camp; there have been many more than we have suffered. Perhaps there are loads of others who are ailing and his forces are not in a fit state to launch an attack," Aramis, totally calm and attentive now, added his opinion quietly.

"Or else he will make a desperate attack before he loses any more men," Athos observed.

"Very possible," Toiras agreed, "and for that we need to be ready."

"How are your reserves of ammunition?" Gerard wanted to know. "We did not have the capacity to replenish those supplies as well as food."

"Understood," Tréville replied, "but we have guarded our ammunition for other reasons and maintained an inventory; our stores are strong enough to defend ourselves. We have shot, powder and explosives aplenty."

"That is reassuring to know," Gerard commented.

"Will you be wanting me to go to Buckingham when daylight arrives to tell him that we are no longer surrendering?" Tréville asked the Governor, already wondering how the English Duke might respond to the turn-about in events. Had Buckingham accepted the surrender on the first day, the situation would be very different by now.

Toiras steepled his fingertips together as a smile slowly spread across his face. "Oh no, you won't have to visit our enemy. I have an idea."

Tréville maintained an impassive air but his heart sank. The Governor's last 'good idea' had lost two men – one as a prisoner - and nearly cost Athos his life. What could Toiras possibly be contemplating now?

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **Sir William Beecher (or Becher), born 1580, member of Parliament and supporter of Buckingham, raised £10,000 of the £14,000 the Duke needed to keep his army in the field. He, too, went to La Rochelle in 1627 but returned to England when the Duke's forces were ensconced on R**_ _ **é**_ _ **in order to raise more money and men. He gathered a mere 400!**_

 _ **Parliament had been attempting to impeach Buckingham but, so far, had not succeeded.**_

 _ **Buckingham grew so desperate for money that he wrote to his mother, but she had just bought a new house and had problems of her own. His wife sent £200 from the housekeeping, but reminded him that the roof needed fixing!**_

 _ **Norfolk, for those unfamiliar with English geography, is an eastern county in England making up part of East Anglia.**_

 _ **Reinforcements – or lack thereof –for the English are as written above.**_

 _ **Schomberg, a formidable leader with an impressive reputation, did arrive to aid in the relief of**_ _ **Ȉ**_ _ **le de R**_ _ **é**_ _ **, although the size of his force differs between sources; it was at least four thousand men but I chose to use the upper estimate here.**_

 _ **The intelligence reports to the French here are my invention to support the discussion but Louis and Richelieu would have had their spymasters!**_


	54. Chapter 54

_**Evening, all. This is one of those little chapters that sort of creep up on you and there was a need for Athos and Aramis to clear the air between them. It's also slightly different stylistically for me.**_

 _ **Apologies in advance for any glaring errors. I have done a cursory read but have to get to bed - up at 4.30 am (in 6 hours) to go away for a few days. Will be back soon.**_

 _ **More importantly, many thanks those of you who continue to read, those who comment, those who follow and those who have made a 'favourite' of this story. You all encourage me and I am indebted to you.**_

CHAPTER 54

I

 _In the waters between the island and the mainland, Athos began to slow down markedly. He was tiring fast and the cold began to penetrate into the core of his being, creating an insidious numbing of his limbs so that his legs kicked more feebly and his arms failed to propel him the distance he had been achieving with earlier strokes. The wind was getting up, churning the sea's surface so that the resultant choppiness contrived to slow his progress even further. Suddenly, his rhythm broke, he lost concentration and began to sink. He struggled upwards, his head breaking the surface as he spat out a mouthful of briny liquid, trying to ignore what he had swallowed as he trod water to gather his senses and bearings._

 _He could see the coastline clearly now, with the Royalist camp directly ahead of him and the walls of La Rochelle off to the left. Re-invigorated, he struck out again but within minutes, the exhaustion was making itself felt once more and he fought to stay afloat. When he dared to look, he thought that the beach seemed no closer despite his efforts and an incipient panic began to take hold. He was not going to reach it; his strength was waning fast and there was a cruel irony in the knowledge that safety and the firmness of the sandy beach were so close and yet so far._

 _He did not want to die, not like this. The end, if it were to be premature, should be on a battle field or fighting to defend the Citadel against an English onslaught, not during an attempt to bring succour to those who were besieged. He knew there had been a risk, that was why he could not bring himself to tell Aramis of what he intended for he knew his friend would have tried everything within his power to dissuade him from such an enterprise._

 _In his mind's eye, he could almost see Aramis frowning at him and hear him scolding: "I told you so."_

 _He almost emitted an embittered laugh but it was choked off as he swallowed another mouthful of water and gagged at the excessive saltiness. He was not going to give up and resumed his struggle, firmly resolved not to look again to see whether or not the coast was getting any nearer._

 _Each stroke was a struggle and he did not move easily through the water; his legs felt heavy, dragging him down and he submerged several times. The final time he surfaced, he was somehow turned around and he circled desperately trying to find land; a wave washed over his head and he spat water again as he realised, in horror, that both the island and the mainland were no longer in sight. Confused, he tried to circle again but his limbs had become leaden and lethargy crept through his body as he began to sink once more, caught in a strong undercurrent that had not been so before. Terrified, he battled to reach air but his body no longer responded and the more he struggled to swim upwards, the faster he descended. His lungs were bursting and his chest burning but hope was gone._

 _Aramis had been right; he should never have volunteered for the venture for it was a lost cause. He would never get relief for Porthos, nor would he ever see his friends and Tr_ _é_ _ville again. He was startled as, through the gloom, a figure began to emerge and he blinked repeatedly as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. It was Ann, her voluminous skirts and loose hair swirling around her in the water. Her hand reached out towards him and she smiled, warmly and invitingly as he heard her voice clearly inside his head._

" _Come with me, my love. It is all right; stop fighting and find the peace for which you have long been searching. I have waited for you."_

 _Her voice was soft, lilting; that particular timbre that she reserved just for him within the privacy of their bedchamber. She still reached out for him and he could not help but wonder if she had forgiven him for the punishment he had meted out to her when she had murdered his younger brother._

 _Time seemed to have ceased to exist and somnolent warmth began to spread across his torso. Oh God, how he missed her and still loved her despite everything that had happened! His arms extended towards her and he felt her feather-light touch slide in a caress over the back of his hands as her fingers enveloped his wrists – and tightened with an indescribable grip that made his eyes widen with surprise. All greeting, all gentleness had gone as her face adopted a terrifying ferocity and her smile metamorphosed into a demonic grimace. Around her neck was a hangman's noose - the one he had ordered to be put there – with a frayed end trailing in the water behind her._

" _Come with me, my love," she repeated, her voice harsh, ironic, no welcome remaining in her hand or eye. "Come with me to the hell where you sent me, the place where you belong."_

 _This was wrong! This was not what had happened!_

Athos sat bolt upright on his pallet in the room which he shared with his brothers. Sweat poured from him and his chest heaved as he tried to suck in much-needed air. He could not breathe and had to get out.

Crawling across the floor in an ungainly fashion and not even attempting to be quiet, all he knew was that he needed to get out into any air the night offered. Grabbing the door handle, he hauled himself upright and stumbled from the room and out into the courtyard where he sank to his knees, coughing, choking and gasping as he tried to fill his lungs with much-needed air. Scrambling on all fours through the dirt, he found the well and turned to sit against it, its wall supporting his back as he sat, breathing hard, head bowed and resting on his drawn-up knees and eyes closed as great, unprecedented sobs wracked his frame.

He did not know how long he sat there but he eventually became aware of soft footfalls and someone sliding down to sit beside him, shoulders touching solicitously, yet patiently waiting until his sobs decreased and he controlled his breathing.

"Bad dreams?" Aramis asked eventually.

"I nearly drowned," Athos replied, his voice sounding distant and not his own.

"Stuff of nightmares indeed," came the genuinely sympathetic response.

Athos raised his head and turned tortured eyes upon his friend. "No, Aramis, I nearly drowned."

For a moment, Aamis assumed that Athos was still talking about the nightmare until he realised that he was telling him something more of the real ordeal. Breath caught in his own throat. "Tell me," he said, trying to keep his voice level, neutral, as he wondered if Athos would actually be open with him.

"It was a long way and I did not have the strength; my energy was depleted and I was struggling to stay afloat. I got to the point where I no longer seemed to be making any headway and I had swallowed so much seawater. I really thought that I was going to drown; that I would never see you or Porthos again." He broke off to draw in more shuddering breaths. "The next thing I knew, I was dragging myself through the sand until I collapsed on the beach above the waterline, throwing up a bellyful of sea."

Aramis snorted gently. "You seem to be doing that a lot of late, my friend."

Even Athos allowed himself the beginnings of a wry grin. "If – no, when – we get back to Paris, I believe I shall always look back on this expedition as the one with the debilitating headaches and the constantly unhappy stomach."

They lapsed into an uneasy silence as Aramis pondered what he had heard so far and Athos deliberated on how he should continue.

"Can you forgive me?" he asked at last, fearful of what the response might be, whilst understanding the reasons that could hold Aramis back from giving him the exoneration he suddenly realised he so anxiously sought.

Aramis hesitated. "I had forgiven you before I thought you lost but it did not stop me from being angry with you, at the risk you had taken. I am angry with you now, if truth be told, and with myself for still feeling that anger. I know why you did it; I do understand, not least in your belief that you were our best chance, for I see that you were too. However, it does not make it any easier, knowing what you did and hearing from your own mouth just now that you nearly did not survive the venture."

Silence fell again.

"I hurt you," Athos repeated his earlier statement, "and for that I am truly sorry."

Aramis sighed. "Do you know what really hurts?"

When Athos just looked at him none the wiser, he ploughed on regardless, knowing that he had to be honest.

"That after all this time, you still hold back and do not talk to us."

Athos winced at the sharp observation. "You know that it is not my way. I cannot change how I am; I am not like you or Porthos in your openness."

"We would not want you to be like us," Aramis gently reprimanded him. "It would not do for us all to be cut from the same cloth, so to speak. I am concerned, though, that you continue to think that you do not mean so much to both of us, that we should not worry about you and your well-being, whether you like it or not."

Athos' cheeks began to burn. Over two years since he first met them and he still wondered how they endured him at times for he knew he was not easy to draw alongside, which was why he tried to do everything within his power to demonstrate to them how much he valued their friendship. Too many things had happened in his past, things he could never talk about, things that he tried hard to eclipse from his own memory. His penchant for drink was a means to an end, to drown out his past to afford him the uneasy peace that he could never find but when he had been on the verge of drowning in his dreams, _she_ had been there to torment him. She pervaded his waking moments and now continued to haunt his sleep. He had never confided in Aramis and Porthos about _her,_ what she had done and, more to the point, what _he_ had done as a result. If he were honest with himself, he was afraid of them finding out that he was a man devoid of honour, a man who had hanged his wife, reneged on his responsibility to his estate's tenants and walked away from a prestigious family name that had been in existence for centuries.

He was unworthy of their friendship and care. Perhaps it would have solved a lot of problems if he had perished in the waters off the mainland.

Aramis felt the first stirrings of guilt when he saw Athos' shoulders slump in misery and his mind raced for the words he needed to make amends.

"Porthos and I know we cannot make you talk and we accept that, as frustrating as it is at times for us, but you have to understand the impact of this event upon us, on me." He had to make sure that Athos was listening. "Look at me," he insisted.

He waited until Athos raised his head and turned towards him. Aramis laid a hand on his arm to maintain his attention.

"Of course I forgive you but I will never forget what has happened and how I felt when I believed that I saw you die and I could do nothing. It was … it was …" He wondered how he could explain sufficiently for either of them to appreciate the enormity of his mood. "It was like another Savoy," the words came out in a pained rush.

"Aramis, you can't …" Athos was horrified that he had initiated anything akin to the shock Aramis had experienced two years beforehand. Athos was newly commissioned when the twenty musketeers were slaughtered, Marsac had gone missing and Aramis was the sole survivor, albeit with a serious head injury and traumatised beyond imaginings. "That was so different, so many of your brothers ….."

"Yes they were my musketeer brothers but you … and Porthos …. you are so much more my brothers, both of you, and I thought he was dying and that you were dead." He let his voice trail off at his admission.

Athos let out a low groan as he finally realised what his actions had done to his friend. When Aramis was injured at Savoy, Marsac had pulled him to safety and hidden him, whereupon he had passed out. Later, when he regained consciousness, it had been to find himself alone in the aftermath of a bloody massacre. He had been unable to help protect his fellow musketeers, just as he had been rendered helpless when Porthos fell sick and Athos had come under personal attack from the English, except that this time he had been witness to what was happening to both.

"I am sorry," Athos murmured yet again, hoping that his repetition might begin to convince Aramis of his sincerity. He slid an arm around Aramis' shoulders in a rare gesture of camaraderie.

"I am sorry too," Aramis whispered, his eyes glistening. "I am sorry for punching you…"

"I deserved it," Athos interrupted wryly.

"Now that I agree with," Aramis said but the brief smile swiftly faded. "I am sorry for doubting your ability to complete the swim and I am sorry that I have not said before that I more than appreciate what you did. I meant it when I told you that I forgive you but I cannot forget what has passed and I would ask that we never speak of this again."

He was so serious that Athos knew this was a pivotal moment in their relationship, their brotherhood. His head dipped as he concurred.

"We will never discuss this again," he stressed.

They sat in the dirt, Athos pulling Aramis close as they sought and found solace in each other.

"Maybe," Aramis began eventually, "we need to get ready to carry out the Governor's idea."

"It's time," Athos agreed as the sky began to lighten in the east. He stood with deceptive ease, a hand outstretched to assist Aramis to his feet. They remained where they were, hands clasping each other's wrists as their eyes met in silent understanding.

In the shadows of an open doorway, Porthos smiled to himself, convinced that peace had been restored between them before he slipped back into the darkness and his bed, lest he be discovered as a watcher in the night.

II

When the English awoke after dawn and prepared to begin their duties for the day, they were surprised to be hailed from the Citadel battlements. A number of them glanced upwards, rooted to where they stood in utter disbelief. Others joined their ranks and someone had the presence of mind to run to Buckingham's command tent.

The French lined the walls shouting in mockery down to those who dared besiege them. Each man held a pike at the top of which was skewered a joint of meat that they waved derisively at those who watched them.

Having hurled a torrent of abuse at the Englishmen below, Porthos gave a hearty laugh and looked at his brothers.

"I ain't had so much fun in a long time," he declared.

"Let's just hope they understand Toiras' message that we are not going to be surrendering any time soon," added Tréville as he passed behind them at that moment. "The next move will be down to the Duke of Buckingham." He clapped the big man on the back, delighted to see him well on the road to recovery. "Be careful of that ham, Porthos. I would hate to see it go sailing over the wall and into the English trenches below. That's what we're supposed to be having to break our fast."

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **The French did line the battlements waving joints of meat skewered on pikes as they shouted taunts at the English!**_


	55. Chapter 55

_**Greetings, all, and many thanks for your feedback. I am so glad that you enjoyed the last chapter, especially as the dream was a bit of a departure for me from the usual writing. Just exploring different approaches! People continue to 'favourite' and/or 'follow' and I am so grateful for this encouragement. Thank you also to guests Clara and to equine 14. In answer to your question, I am not strictly a historian, although I did study it as part of my degree (the main component being English Literature) many moons ago and have had a passion for it ever since. Strangely, the main period I studied back then was the early Medieval!**_

CHAPTER 55

I

There was a lull in the immediate aftermath of the taunting of the English soldiers by the French and, once the Citadel's defenders had eaten their fill as they broke their fast, it was clear that decisions had been made in the enemy camp as it suddenly became a hive of industry. Not satisfied with hourly reports made by his most trusted men, Tréville insisted on making several visits to the battlements so that he could look down upon the English himself. There was a surge of activity in the forward trenches that had not been evident for over a week and large groups of men appeared re-invigorated enough to commence training exercises again in the open spaces beyond the lines of tents.

Through his spyglass, Tréville studied the comings and goings from Buckingham's command centre, his face remaining impassive, but his men knew that he was absorbing information, considering the implications and formulating rapid responses the whole time.

"The Duke is preparing to launch an attack soon," he declared with confidence as the afternoon wore on. "I will advise the Governor of such and recommend that we make ready. Porthos!"

The big man stood up straight from where he had been lounging against the wall on the walkway, peering out at the English camp.

"Captain?" he was at once attentive.

"Go to Serge and instruct him from me not to get too excited about the supplies he has received. Tonight's fare and any meals tomorrow must be simple and ones that men can eat at their stations. The guard will be substantially increased and men will, of necessity, be at the ready."

"Sir," Porthos acknowledged and was gone.

"Aramis," he turned his attention to the marksman. "Seek out all the officers and have them meet with the Governor and me in one hour. Then you are to go to the infirmary, take stock of the new provisions and make ready anything required for expected casualties."

Aramis nodded and he, too, ran as swiftly as he dared down the stone staircase.

Tréville turned to Athos. "You're with me. We have one hour to plan strategies to recommend to the Governor and officers as a starting point for discussions and I do not want to give any of them reason to find us wanting."

He began to descend and Athos, an eyebrow raised that he should have been singled out for such a task, said nothing but followed in his wake.

The hour passed quickly but, between them, they produced notes enough and some diagrams. Athos enjoyed the time, his mind fully occupied and challenged by the need for preparedness and strategy. More than once, Tréville nodded his approval at a suggestion made by the younger man. It was when Tréville stood upright, hands on the small of his back to ease the ache from where he had been leaning over the table – for neither man had taken the time to sit – that Athos began to pile the documents together in a semblance of order and made to hand them to Tréville.

"Bring them with you," Tréville ordered and headed towards the door, buttoning up his doublet as he went. He did not wait, even when Athos hesitated and then had to scurry along the corridor to catch up with him.

"You will remain with me in the meeting," Tréville went on. "Why would I not have you with me when some of these ideas or their refinements are yours? Much of what you proposed to enhance security during the period when we had Savatier under surveillance was employed so that the Governor himself values your input and opinion, as do I," he added as he glanced sideways, satisfied at the reaction his words elicited. Athos refrained from meeting his gaze but the corners of his mouth twitched, perhaps the closest Athos usually came to giving a smile. He then visibly squared his shoulders, clutched the papers to his chest and fell into a more regulated step beside his Captain.

II

By the time most of the inhabitants of the Citadel had settled for the night, much had been achieved, more was arranged for the following day and the men were in a state of alert. The guard had been doubled throughout, including around the section which now housed the Catholic women and children. There had been an extra mustering of the men before they were allowed to eat their evening meal and all weapons inspected to ensure that they had been maintained during the period of enforced inactivity; any found falling short of expectations had to be seen to be rectified before those men were fed. The inventory of ammunition was checked and checked again, with extra shot and powder distributed to those on duty in the event of any attack beginning whilst on a particular watch. Water was drawn from the well and placed in containers in strategic places within the Citadel, the smaller ones for drinking purposes and larger ones to douse any fires that might be started during an offensive.

Aramis, Athos and Porthos retired to their quarters a little after ten in the evening and, in an unspoken agreement stemming from experience of past evenings before a conflict, lay down on their pallets fully clothed. The only concessions they made was to pull off their boots, standing them ready by their side as they lay down, doublets unbuttoned. Belts and weapons were set ready within reach as they stretched out.

"Don't reckon we're goin' to get much sleep," Porthos grumbled, trying to get comfortable as he lay there on his back between his two friends.

"Do you think Tréville's right and that Buckingham is about to attack?" Aramis wondered aloud from where he lay curled on his side and facing the other two.

"He's 'ad the experience of knowin' what to look for an' the English were definitely more active today than they 'ave been for a while," Porthos reasoned.

"I suppose Buckingham won't want to be caught out here over the winter. He could lose a lot more men living in tents if the weather becomes really bad and he could be the one with reduced rations," Aramis thought aloud.

"I don't want to be stuck in 'ere over winter either," Porthos was adamant. "I don't think it's goin' to be very warm."

"Would you sooner be in tents camped outside La Rochelle?" asked Athos from his other side. His voice was low, sleepy and his eyes were closed. He tried to stifle a yawn; despite a few days having passed since his epic swim, he had to admit that his energy levels had not yet been fully restored, even though he had had the opportunity for prolonged rest before returning to the island.

"I don't want to be stuck there either; I'd sooner be back in Paris, close to the taverns we love so well, the familiar servin' girls ..."

"And the same Red Guards to fleece of their well-earned coin," Aramis interrupted.

Porthos guffawed loudly. "I'm not so sure about the well-earned bit! I 'aven't met a Red Guard yet who did a full, honest day's work and really earned what 'e was paid."

Aramis joined in the laughter as Athos huffed in mock frustration at the disturbance. "We certainly will not get any sleep if you two persist in chattering the night away."

"I wonder how many men Buckingham has already lost to the sickness," Aramis commented. "There have been mass graves aplenty but it was hard to see how many corpses they were assigning to each. Perhaps Buckingham needs to attack whilst he still has sufficient forces that remain standing."

"And money to pay them," Athos added. "It costs much to keep an army in the field for an extended period. If the Duke is as unpopular in London as the Governor believes, it is possible that the necessary funds are not being issued. It is one thing to have the support of the English King but not to have the same from his Parliament could lead to problems."

"So you think an attack is coming sooner rather than later too?" Aramis wanted to know.

"Let us say I would not be surprised if it were sooner," Athos confirmed.

"Tell us again what it was like aboard 'is ship," Porthos urged, ever one to relish the anecdotes, both old and new, shared as they relaxed at the end of a day.

Aramis tapped him on the arm, mindful that Athos had had broken sleep the night before, as had he. "We need to sleep now. Athos can give an account of his stay aboard Buckingham's ship another time, when we have had the chance to teach the English a resounding lesson that they will never forget!"

The three chuckled or gave in to a wry smile in brotherly agreement and wriggled about on their pallets, each eager to find a more comfortable sleeping position. Before long, they had all fallen silent, the much needed slumber claiming them.

III

They were rudely awakened at first light by a volley of musket fire. Alert almost instantaneously, they scrabbled for their boots and pulled them on as they regained their feet, reached for their weapons and headed for the door, all in silence and with economy of movement. By contrast, the courtyard was erupting into noisy activity as men raced for their allotted positions, shouting instruction and requests to others, all aware that this was being mirrored in other sections of the Citadel. Tréville was already in evidence, standing in the centre of the yard and gesticulating, his measured shout rising easily above the general clamour as he issued further orders to which men responded without hesitation.

The _Inseparables_ passed him with a nod as they reached the stairs and ran up them to their places on the battlements, ducking down behind comrades as they fired down upon the enemy. Warily, they risked fleeting glances out and down upon the enemy to gauge what was happening before flattening themselves back against the ramparts as they loaded their weapons and lit match cords from those of their colleagues.

The English had cleared the outer fortifications of the Citadel, removing anything that could obstruct them. During the hours of darkness, the small cannon had been repositioned and, as ineffectual as they were at breaching the thick walls of the Citadel, they kept a proportion of the defenders occupied and distracted. A considerable number of English soldiers had moved up to the forward trenches and were intent upon keeping up a barrage of covering fire whilst others clambered out over the rims with scaling ladders, which they endeavoured to stand against the Citadel walls and started to scramble upwards.

Porthos ducked down suddenly as a musket ball ploughed into the wall by his head, shards of stone flying in all directions and one catching his cheek; he swiped angrily at the thin line of blood that ensued.

"They'll pick us off easily if we try to aim at those climbing the ladders," he growled.

"Cover me," Athos ordered to Aramis, who nodded in affirmation as he busily reloaded two pistols.

Signalling when he was ready, he and Athos jumped up together, he firing determinedly as Athos leaned out madly to look at the nearest ladder and the two men climbing rapidly. Even as Athos watched, a lucky shot caught the higher of the two, who screamed aloud, released his hold and jerked backwards, his body arching through the air before hitting the ground below with a sickening thud. The Frenchman who had felled him waited fractionally too long to see the result of his work and a counter shot, well-aimed or otherwise, tore out his throat.

As another shot whistled past his own ear, Athos dropped down below the level of the wall.

"Their ladders are too short," he announced as Aramis crouched beside him.

"What?" Aramis was not sure that he had heard correctly.

"The ladders are too short. They cannot reach easily," he repeated.

The other two watched as he crawled to the edge of the walkway, called down and waved to attract Tréville's attention. When the officer looked up in his direction, he called down what he had realised. There was a momentary halt as Tréville assimilated what he had been told and then he turned, promptly issuing new orders.

In minutes, a series of human chains had formed from the courtyard, up stairs and to the men lining the battlements. Anything of weight that was expendable and could be moved was handed up to the waiting men. When chunks of stone began to appear, it was clear that a wall somewhere within the fortress was being steadily dismantled. With teamwork and co-ordination, some men leaped up to provide covering fire as others hurled down projectiles on the defenceless men making the futile climb up the Citadel's walls. As more English milled around at the base of the ladders to begin their own climb and replace those who had fallen, they were easily picked off by French musketeers.

For too long, the air was filled with the sound of cannon, musket shots, furious shouts and the screams of injured and dying men. The barrage of French gunfire continued after the English cannons had fallen silent, along with their own muskets, and those trying to scale the walls had retreated into the comparative safety of the trenches as they made their way back to the English camp, carrying their injured comrades with them. The dead, for the time being, were left where they fell and the resultant scene was of utter carnage as many broken bodies lay strewn around the bases of abandoned scaling ladders.

The three exhausted friends sat together on the battlements, legs outstretched before them and weapons lying across their laps. Their faces were begrimed and sweating whilst hair hung in lank, damp strands, their chests heaved from their exertions as they sought to steady racing hearts.

"You boys all right up there?" a voice called from below. Claude. "Cap'n wants everyone accounted for."

"We are fine," Aramis shouted back as he leaned forward so that the veteran musketeer could see him clearly. "What about the others?"

"No fatalities in the regiment but five or six injured," Claude reassured them.

"Bet Delacroix is one of 'em" Porthos said scathingly. "Probably shot 'imself in the foot again."

"No," Athos said quietly. "He's down there on the other side of the well, apparently unharmed."

"Pity," Porthos countered before he stopped to think what he was saying.

"That is very uncharitable of you, my friend," Aramis remonstrated with him.

"Yeah, well, I don't feel very charitable towards 'im," Porthos admitted. "Never 'ave done an' I'm not about to change my ways an' be an 'ypocrite."

Aramis rolled his eyes and struggled to his feet. Proffering a hand to Athos, he hauled him up too, by which time, Porthos had already started down the steps and they followed him carefully.

As they crossed the yard and went past the well, Delacroix still loitered there with a couple of his companions. His eyes narrowed as he watched the three draw level.

"I might have known those three'd come through the attack. Couldn't have the Captain's favourites being hurt now, could we? They probably stayed low up on those battlements to stay safe," Delacroix jeered.

Porthos ground to a halt at the insult, "We're not all like you, Delacroix, preferring to inflict injuries to evade fightin'."

Aramis, walking next to him, grabbed his arm and pulled him onwards, hissing a warning as he did so." Keep walking. He is not worth it."

Delacroix bristled at the implication though and fought back the only way he knew how. "It wouldn't do now for the Captain's blue-eyed hero to get a scrape after he did that long swim that no-one else could possibly do to get help. I suppose we all should be bowing gratefully every time he passes. Let's bow, comrades, and demonstrate just how thankful we are."

This time, Aramis was not fast enough to avert a confrontation as Athos turned on his heels and began slowly walking back to the group who dipped in mockery.

"Green," he announced in a seemingly bored monotone.

"What?" Delacroix looked puzzled.

"My eyes are green, not blue. If you are going to try to insult me, I would appreciate it if you at least had the basic details correct." The cold, careful, aristocratic enunciation was unmistakable.

Delacroix produced another mock bow, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Forgive me, oh hero of the musketeers!"

"Well you couldn't be a hero; didn't see you rushin' to volunteer for no swim," Porthos stepped forward warningly.

"Hush," Delacroix turned to his companions. "Did I hear someone speak?"

His ridiculing of Porthos greatly amused those with him and they burst into derogatory laughter.

"Enough," Athos raised his voice for he would not tolerate any disrespect to the big musketeer on account of his background. Porthos had faced too much discrimination in his past that had led him into many a fight and they had not stopped when he had initially joined the regiment but he had more than proved his worth on numerous occasions and this vulgar display of disparagement by Delacroix was the first incident for a very long time and Athos was not going to tolerate it. His friend was not going to suffer on his behalf.

"Oh, so sorry, your lordship!" Delacroix could not know the significance of the jibe to the young comte who strove so hard to keep his past well and truly in the past and, as a consequence, he failed to see Athos clench his fists. "I forget how wonderful you are and that we should all be beholden to you. Surprising how quickly a drunk can do no wrong."

Something in Athos snapped. It was probably the result of the adrenalin still pumping through his body in the aftermath of the conflict with the English but he was past the point of patience. His right arm went back as he prepared to throw a punch but Porthos caught his wrist and held him fast just as Tréville stepped between him and Delacroix..

He eyed Athos first with suppressed anger. "This is happening too often," he warned menacingly. "Get yourself to your quarters and cleaned up. We cannot assume Buckingham has had enough."

"But ...," Aramis began, eager to explain what had transpired but a withering glare from the Captain silenced him faster than any word would have done."

"You are dismissed too," Tréville ordered, "all three of you; _and_ you." He turned to take in those who hovered behind Delacroix. The argumentative musketeer also made to go.

"Not you," Tréville ordered. He waited until the two of them were left alone in the middle of the courtyard. "It seems you have a short memory and do not recall our recent conversations. Either that or you are under a misguided belief that I did not mean what I said. Given that I know you were behind the attack on Athos ..." he waved a hand to silence the objection Delacroix began to make. He was not prepared to discuss how he knew, especially since the two key witnesses had met with such an unfortunate end.

"Do not insult me with pleading your innocence. If I ever have a grain of evidence that implicates you, you will lose your commission immediately. It is only that we are in a state of war that has spared you thus far, as I have needed every available man to fight and I do not think Buckingham can be dismissed as yet but I tell you this. You are nothing short of an idiot to think you can say the things you do without repercussion. I heard what you said just now– all of it. If I had ever seen a trace of that man's bravery in anything you have done, you still would not have grounds to comment. You are so arrogant and careless that you did not even notice me standing there listening but enough is enough. Take this as your final warning, whether the English are about to come knocking at the main gate or not.

"If I hear you insult or threaten Athos again, or you start on his friends in order to antagonise or provoke a response from him, I will have you thrown into a cell so fast that you will not have the time to draw breath, and you will stay there until we leave for La Rochelle once more. At that point, you will be released to make your own way in the world as you will no longer be a musketeer; that I can promise you. Do not think that you have unfinished business with Athos, it ends here and now. Do you understand me?"

When Delacroix failed to make a fast enough reply, Tréville took a step closer and spat out the words again. "Do you understand me?"

Delacroix nodded nervously and waited as the officer strode away. Then his face changed, hardened as he swore a vow.

"I have every right to be a musketeer, more so than that group of misfits. This is not over, Athos. This will never be over whilst you are in the regiment or still breathing. I will bide my time; I will find a way to destroy you once and for all; you too, Tréville, for taking his side in everything. I don't care how long it takes me but I will wait and I will get you both."

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **It was yet another English blunder that the scaling ladders were too short for the Citadel walls. The French did spend their time dropping heavy things on the men who attempted the climb and musketeers did pick off those waiting at the bottom, preparing to climb.**_

 _ **In the next chapter (later in the week), Schomberg arrives with reinforcements and the English invasion of**_ _ **Ȋ**_ _ **le de R**_ _ **é**_ _ **reaches its awful climax.**_


	56. Chapter 56

_**Dear all, many thanks to you all for your feedback on the last chapter. Things are definitely not going well for Buckingham at present (or me – on holiday with infected tooth, agony and swollen face – emergency appointment at dentist today, strong anti-biotics and letter for x-rays at nearest A &E 20 miles away to take back to my dentist for appointment a week on Monday. Going to lose the tooth – terrified of dentists anyway so tie me down now! Feeling very sorry for myself at present so will try to console myself with getting chapter 57 sorted!) **_

_**This next chapter has been a bit problematic anyway as I could find plenty on the outcome but only a basic outline of details that led to it so a huge 'thank you' must go to my brother who sat with me for a couple of hours one morning as I showed him maps of R**_ _ **é**_ _ **, diagrams of what what I had been 'created' or worked from and talked him through what I knew; we worked on some finer, plausible details together that I hope will be seen to work. I was going to do the end of the siege in one go but that would be too long so have opted for breaking it into slightly shorter chapters than my most recent ones.**_

CHAPTER 56

I

In the aftermath of the failed assault on the French, Tréville was brought a number of reports updating him on the state of the Citadel but preferred to see for himself so he visited all areas, including that of the women and children to ensure that they had not been too frightened by events. Fatalities were surprisingly few and only two men remained with seriously worrying injuries; other men were soon up and about walking and then there were those with the lesser wounds, including those with cuts such as Porthos from the flying shards of stone. On entering the infirmary, he visited and spoke with as many as possible and stood calmly watching, arms folded, as Aramis and a couple of other orderlies dressed wounds and visited those who had received treatment.

Then he circled the battlements, spending a lot of time talking to those on duty, praising them for their efforts earlier in the day and encouraging them for the hours ahead; it did not matter to him whether they were musketeers or not. His efforts and interest were appreciated and the men responded warmly, although he did afford those of his regiment more of his time in comparison. Once he had been advised as to the current standing of the ammunition supplies, he paid a visit to the kitchens where Serge and his helpers felt nothing but relief that adequate food now existed and they had created a more substantial supper for the men whose appetites always seemed to increase vastly after fighting.

Serge urged his Captain to remain and eat but Tréville shook his head.

"I have too much to do. The Governor is expecting me soon to make a report and there will be much to discuss as a result."

The old cook expressed his displeasure with a frown and 'tut-tutted' audibly.

"I'll not take no for an answer; you need some food inside you for all that thinkin' you're goin' to be doin'. Besides, you'll be passin' on bad habits to your men when you don't eat, given the opportunity." He ladled hot stew into a bowl and tore a loaf of bread into four, handing a chunk, the bowl and a spoon to the officer. "If you'll not sit down an' eat, you'll at least take it with you," he insisted.

Tréville smiled at the old soldier's gruff manner that concealed his care. "You reprimanding me?"

"Take it how you will," Serge dared to reply. The two had served together for too long for the seasoned veteran to stand on ceremony and he took advantage of that to push the boundaries of respect when he felt it was needed. "No wonder that young 'un has such bad ways when he 'as you settin' him such an example," he muttered, deliberately loud enough for Tréville to hear.

The officer coughed to hide his amusement and filled a spoon with meat and vegetables, blowing on the steaming mix before eating it. He nodded appreciatively, waving his spoon above the bowl as he finished his mouthful before speaking and choosing to ignore the reference to Athos and his erratic eating habits. Back in Paris, it had been Serge's mission to ensure that a prodigious alcohol intake was replaced by good, hearty meals, but his surreptitious methods rarely met with any consistent success with the young musketeer. Since leaving Paris, alcohol – namely beer – had been strictly rationed by necessity for all but Tréville doubted if Athos' eating patterns had improved much, given all that he had been doing.

"It's good, Serge; well-seasoned," Tréville said, trying to placate the brusque cook.

The old soldier harrumphed loudly. "That's fine then. You just make sure you finish it all. I'll pick up the bowl from your office later and I'm not expecting to find any left."

Tréville took another hurried mouthful as if to demonstrate that he was going to eat the meal. "I'm eating it," he reasserted as he took his leave.

Fortified by the food that he ate as he finished his rounds, he abandoned the bowl in his room and tidied himself up before going to see the Governor where he remained in deep consultation with Toiras until the early hours of the morning. Over glasses of a good brandy, they speculated on the next moves of the English and the expected imminent arrival of sufficient French reinforcements to engage with the enemy. They discussed the renewed provisions within the Citadel and how much of the armoury stores had been expended during the day's conflict before seriously exploring how long they could hold out now if necessary.

Exhausted in mind and body, he merely unbuttoned his doublet and sank down upon his bed, his boots still on. He never expected to sleep but he felt as if he had just rested his eyelids when a knock came at his door.

"Come!" he ordered as he sat up on the cot and swung his legs over the side, setting down his feet as he wiped a hand wearily over his face.

Aramis stood in the doorway. "We thought you might want to know that there is activity in the English camp."

"What time is it?" Tréville inquired as he moved past Aramis, the younger musketeer keeping up with brisk, long strides.

"Just after five," Aramis answered.

"How long has whatever it is been going on?" Tréville demanded as he approached Athos and Porthos up on the battlements.

"It's difficult to say exactly. We started hearing noises a little less than an hour ago but there is much more movement now; they are obviously under orders to be as quiet as possible," Athos said nodding towards the enemy camp.

"But it's a still night and that number of men can't move silently," Porthos added.

"Move?" Tréville peered down through the darkness but could see nothing of any note with the cloud cover masking the moonlight.

"We think they are packing up and relocating," Athos surmised. "It seems that they are abandoning the camp rather than taking any steps to dismantle it."

Tréville's brow furrowed in thought. "It smacks of desperation if Buckingham is prepared to lose all that equipment."

"It could be that he has had enough of losing any more men," Aramis suggested. "In addition to those killed in conflict, he has lost a fair number to sickness. Perhaps he finds himself in a position now that he cannot carry out a successful assault on the Citadel with the men he has and we already think he cannot afford to winter on Ré. It could be a wise move to retreat now before any heavier losses."

"Except that it is quite possible that Schomberg has landed men elsewhere on the island by now," Athos reminded them.

"Cutting off his retreat to the beach at Sablanceau, you mean?" Tréville added.

"We need the dawn so that we can see what's goin' on," Porthos declared impatiently and the others nodded.

"What do you think he'll do?" Aramis looked to Tréville for an answer.

"The only thing he can do – find another way off this island," the Captain answered.

II

In the grey light of dawn, what was happening became chillingly clear.

There was chaos in the English camp and to the south of it. Hundreds of men had headed east back towards the beach at Sablanceau where they had landed so many weeks beforehand but had turned around and were heading westward once more, meeting and mixing with those who were following so that there appeared, for a long time, to be a confused milling around.

The reason could only be one thing. It was as Athos supposed. Schomberg must have landed with sufficient numbers to prevent the English from retreating to the beach where they would have intended heading out to the waiting ships. The French reinforcements had to be such that Buckingham did not want to engage with them.

Tréville moved swiftly along the battlements with his spyglass, trying to ascertain the situation as quickly as possible and it soon became evident to him what was happening. Movement on the skyline suggested that a sizeable force was gathered there although it was, as yet, too far away for him to determine any specifics. The English were returning to their camp and some were beginning to move on through or past it to the south of the Citadel and town, deliberately staying beyond musket range, but for the time being there did not seem much order in their movement.

A flurry of activity centred temporarily upon the command tent and a number of men – presumably officers – at last emerged in a hurry and separated, heading in different directions to issue instructions to try to restore some order.

The Musketeer Captain waited patiently as the sun rose in the sky and the English continued their flight, but it was soon apparent that not all were departing. He watched as teams of men went to the cannon and began to manoeuvre the unwieldy weapons into new positions, turning the round completely so that they were now facing towards the east and Schomberg's French force. A few other Englishmen moved amongst the tents, randomly slicing at guy ropes with daggers and swords so that the canvas city began to collapse, affording a clearer view of the approaching attack. Even as they watched from the Citadel, the cannons were loaded and primed ready for firing.

"The forlorn hope," Tréville said quietly and with respect.

No officer relished the thought of giving to a group of men, whether they were volunteers or not, a task that was tantamount to suicide and those Englishmen manning the guns were the defensive rearguard, expected to delay the reinforcements by any means so that their colleagues had as much time as possible to get to a safer place to embark in order to sail home. They would not be expected to survive. The French response would be to overrun them and end any resistance. If, in doing that, they could wound, bring them down and force them to surrender, then so be it but it would not be the priority of the day.

It was certainly not part of any plan that Tréville was already formulating.

"Tréville!" a voice bellowed. It was Toiras in one of the courtyards and Tréville hurried to join him and make his report.

"I believe they will be heading for the causeway to get across it to Loix and be picked up by their ships there," Tréville said briskly. "They have left a forlorn hope to fire cannon at Schomberg's men as they approach."

Toiras looked at him long and hard. "Then you know what you have to do."

"Yes, Governor." Tréville had already made his decision but he noted wryly that the other man had not contemplated any other alternatives. He could only assume it was because the Governor saw an unrivalled expertise in the Louis' regiment. He turned and saw that a number of his musketeers were in the vicinity, watching and waiting for further instructions. "Musketeers, with me! We have to take out that forlorn hope."

"Tréville, I did not intend for you to go. There are plenty of men that can be sent. I will need you here," Toiras insisted.

The Captain of the King's Musketeers drew himself up to his full height and took a deep breath, desperately unhappy with the notion Toiras had that his men might be expendable, although he was not. "If my men are going out there, then I will lead them."

Toiras frowned at the officer's declaration. "I could order you to remain."

Tréville gave a flicker of a smile. "You could, but I would prefer it if you did not do so; I would hate to disobey you and force you to complete copious paperwork and initiate court martial proceedings when I return."

"'When?'" Toiras picked out. "You are confident in your task then?"

Tréville looked around at his men as they moved in closer, the group fronted by his _Inseparables._ "Confident?" he repeated. "How can I be anything else with these men behind me?" He grew more serious. "I would not think of sending them out without going with them."

Toiras sighed. "I commend you on your stubbornness and commitment to your men, Captain; no wonder you have such loyalty from them. I will not stop you; do as you will."

The Captain acknowledged the Governor with a nod and addressed his men. "Make sure you have enough shot and powder; at least ten rounds apiece. Gather at the main gate as quickly as you can. We go in five minutes."

 ** _A/N_**

 ** _Schomberg had landed at the other fort, initially discounted by Buckingham before the siege began. He did cut off the English retreat so they had to use the alternative route past the Citadel to the causeway, through extensive marshland, to Loix._**

 ** _The idea of the forlorn hope and the Musketeer assault is, as far as we know, mine and my brother's idea but it could have been feasible to cover the revised English retreat._**


	57. Chapter 57

**_Okay, my summer seems to be ending with a lurch from catastrophe to catastrophe. My abscess infection seems to be over as I am almost at the end of a course of antibiotics and I start other dental treatment; thank you for your well wishes. However, I am now experiencing major technical problems with computers. I have two laptops, both of which chose to die within 24 hours of each other at the end of last week. One has been repaired and the other lived long enough after work for me to download 31,500 precious photos! But the greatest disaster has been my portable hard drive - not backed up completely anywhere. It is now with a professional to see if he can retrieve the information: all my school-related work, lesson plans, data, spreadsheets, all the preparatory work I have done over the past five weeks this summer PLUS all of 'Renegade', 'Retribution', the other short stories, research for 'Retribution' and ALL the research I have done for my own historical novel! The man said he would ring after 2 hours; I rang him after 2.5 hours and he said it was not as straight forward as he thought. He was going to ring me again after a further 75 minutes as he was running a test. That time came and went nearly an hour ago. If I thought technical problems had driven me to near hysteria in the past, it is nothing to what I am on the verge of now! I am far from hopeful! I have to keep things in perspective - I am well, it is merely technology and the work can be done again! (and I will back up the back ups in future!)_**

 ** _I nearly forgot to thank you all for your feedback on the last chapter, including the guests. Thank you so much._**

CHAPTER 57

No musketeer could be accused of tardiness as they assembled in silence at the main entrance. Toiras stood to one side watching the preparations and nodded his encouragement and best wishes to the regiment's Captain. Tréville held his gaze for a moment and then turned towards the loyal men that gathered there knowing, even before he saw them, that his _Inseparables_ were immediately behind him. Unbidden, they moved as one, taking another step closer, an unspoken message from these incredible men that they would always be at his back, that he would never have to ask for them and that they would follow him through the gates of hell if he so commanded. His head dipped barely perceptively in acknowledgement of their presence.

He signalled to four other soldiers who slid back the large wooden bar that fastened the huge double gates, doing it slowly so as to make the minimum amount of noise. In deference to the group of men about to launch an attack, those who had congregated to watch them go or who were in position on the battlements ready to give any supporting cover all fell silent. There was no desire to warn the English of what was coming up behind them; French success was wholly dependent upon the element of surprise.

Only one gate was partially opened and with Tréville leading the way, the musketeers slipped through in rapid, single file. Bending low, they fanned out as previously decided and raced across the open ground to the nearest of the enemy trenches, dropping into them and waiting, breathing hard until they were all present. There was no suggestion that the English had noticed what they were doing, so hard were they concentrating upon the approach of Schomberg's reinforcements. Someone was shouting orders along the line of cannon but to the French, the instructions were unintelligible; they could only guess at the meaning from the tone, someone perhaps trying to temper frayed nerves and encouraging frightened men to hold just a little longer for the front line of the reinforcements to be within reasonable range. Time would be lost in preparing the small calibre battalion guns for the second round of firing, at which point the Englishmen would be at their most vulnerable.

The musketeers moved stealthily along the trenches, the last that had been dug by the enemy. They could not use them to fire upon the Englishmen as enough time had been found during the siege to move the erroneous wall of earth from the front of the entrenchment to the back so the Musketeers could no longer see the men they stalked and the side was too high and steep for them to clamber up into a firing position. Even had they been able to do that, their pistols would have been ineffectual as they would have still been out of range.

Moving as quickly as possible, they split up and made their way to the shallow sloping entrances to the trenches. Crawling up to level ground, one man knelt and maintained a careful watch on the English as he beckoned to the next man to appear. In human waves, the musketeers emerged and dropped onto their bellies in the dust as they elbowed themselves across open ground to the second line of trenches, those ones that were initially abandoned when it was realised that they were out of musket range of the Citadel.

Whilst pausing here, the first cannons were fired and the musketeers knew that they had to move fast for if they were behind the English when Schomberg's men gathered themselves to retaliate with musket or pistol fire, Tréville's men could be accidentally hit by their own forces.

There was no time to be lost as the enemy sluiced the hot guns with cold water and prepared to reload. They could not be allowed to let loose with the cannon again; casualties from the first round would be high and there could be no more if the Musketeers could help it.

Tréville looked along the line of men to ensure that those who were nearest were watching him for direction; their gazes were steady, unflinching, their tension and alertness almost palpable. He checked his pistols and the match cord and the men followed suit, understanding that they were about to attack. The action moved along the soldiers in the trench yet it took mere seconds before he had their attention again. Raising a hand, he displayed three fingers and mouthed the numbers as he counted down and lowered those same digits.

They erupted from the trenches in a yelling, terrifying burst, each running in a slightly different direction before coming to a near stop and firing as the stunned Englishmen whirled around at the disturbance and recoiled either in shock or felled by a shot. Distracted, they grabbed for their own weapons, fumbling as they tried to return fire in order to defend themselves.

Porthos, Athos and Aramis pounded across the open ground knowing that speed was of the essence. Having each expended the shots from their brace of pistols, they drew their rapiers as they ran, throwing themselves at the enemy moving to intercept them. In a series of lunges, thrusts and parrying, they fought their opponents in a bitter engagement with a mixture of angry roars and exhaled grunts. With the musketeers outnumbering their foe nearly two to one, it was an uneven battle and swiftly concluded. A goodly number of the English had been shot, many fatally, and those who joined in hand-to-hand combat were rapidly overwhelmed by the sheer skill of the musketeers. More were remorselessly cut down where they stood or had the sense to drop their weapons, raise their hands and surrender. It was not long before the confrontation was effectively concluded, the guns were permanently silenced and Schomberg and his troops were almost upon the chaotic remains of the English camp.

Athos stood over the corpse of an Englishman he had run through with his rapier. Bending, he wiped the blade free from blood on the edge of the man's jerkin whilst Porthos, breathing hard from his own exertions, loomed menacingly above the quivering wretch he had subdued. Only Aramis' opponent steadfastly refused to give up gracefully and continued to fight on. Athos and Porthos stood and watched, their impassive expressions suggesting that they were completely unperturbed about the time it was taking their friend to subdue his enemy but beneath their unemotional exteriors, they were carefully scrutinising every move, every exchange and would be ready to intervene the moment they believed that their brother needed genuine assistance.

"Come on, Aramis, deal with him," Porthos teased. "It shouldn't take you this long. It must be on account of you bein' shut up within that Citadel and doin' nothin' for all these weeks. This siege 'as made you soft."

"I disagree," Athos countered as if bored by the whole proceedings. "If the gentleman had any sense," Athos continued drily, "he would surrender forthwith and stop wasting everybody's time."

"Don't you dare move," Porthos growled as the man at the pointed end of his rapier began to scramble backwards when he thought the big musketeer was distracted. The prisoner might not have been able to interpret the French but he certainly understood the tone and the fact that the point scratched at his neck, drawing a very thin line of blood. He froze where he sat on the ground, his eyes wide in terror.

Meanwhile, Aramis drove his man backwards with relentless thrusts until the poor soul fell backwards over the corpse at Athos' feet and landed in a crumpled heap on his back, whimpering at his defeat. The three musketeers said nothing but just exchanged knowing looks with a pair of eyes rolling, a raised eyebrow and a sheepish shrug.

Tréville was moving about the battlefield giving orders. "Claude, take six men and make sure those cannons are safe."

"Sir," came the brusque reply. "You want us to spike 'em?"

The Captain thought for a moment. "No, they will be alright where they are for now; the English will not be coming back this way again to claim them. We'll see if the Governor has the means to make use of them and men from the Citadel can come and get them later. I don't know how manoeuvrable they are and we haven't got the animal teams to harness to them but we can worry about that at another time."

Claude signalled to the men nearest to him and they were gone about their task.

Tréville looked about him and called out to the nearest group of musketeers, instructing them to go amongst the fallen, find the wounded and make arrangements to have them transported back to the infirmary within the Citadel.

"They may be the enemy but that does not mean they do not have to be treated with all due care; we are not leaving men to bleed to death in agony," he added. Another ten to twelve musketeers peeled off to do as they were ordered. He ordered Planchet to lead another group of musketeers in rounding up the prisoners and taking them to be locked up within the Citadel.

"Delacroix!" he shouted and saw the blond-haired man look in his direction, a familiar scowl on his face. "Get a team and collect the dead. Bring them to this end of the trench, lay them out and cover them. We will finish the business in hand and then bury them, using the trench."

It was probably fortunate for Delcroix that his scowl could not intensify any further; even so, he seemed to be on the verge of commenting about the order but had the sense at the last minute to think better of it. His lower jaw worked as he bit back his retort but his manner had not gone unnoticed by the musketeer captain who fixed him with the frostiest stare he could manage.

"These men have fallen in the battle; their comrades are no longer here and we will care for their remains, affording them all the dignity and respect that they deserve. We are not monsters and would hope for no less for our own dead."

Delacroix hesitated for just a moment longer, as if to make a point, before he beckoned to those around him and they began the task of gathering and moving the bodies as instructed.

Exasperated but knowing that there were more pressing things to address, Tréville called the remaining musketeers to him with the intention of leading them in the pursuit of the main retreating English. As they moved back towards the Citadel, the first of Schomberg's forces, led by the man himself, caught up with them. Tréville and his men waited as Schomberg rode towards them on a black stallion.

In his early fifties, with a high brow and thick dark hair swept back from his face, Henri de Schomberg, Marshal of France, cut an imposing figure as he sat and looked down upon the Captain and his men.

"Sir, I am Captain Tréville of His Majesty's musketeers and these are some of my men."

"Captain," Schomberg nodded, endeavouring to keep the stallion in place, so eager was it to be on its way. "I have heard of you and your regiment. That was your work against the English and their guns?"

"Yes, sir," Tréville admitted. "We have taken about a dozen prisoners; the remainder were killed or wounded."

"Good work; there is no doubt that it minimised our casualties."

"I am sorry that we gave them time to cause any at all," Tréville said.

Schomberg dismissed the apology with a wave of the hand. "No matter, without the intervention of you and men, the outcome could have been considerably worse; I expected as much when I saw that soldiers had remained behind to man the guns." His attention was diverted and he looked over Tréville's head to the entrance of the Citadel where the gates had been thrown wide to admit the wounded, even as Toiras, also on horseback, emerged at the head of his cavalry, pike men and infantry.

The two leaders greeted each other like long lost friends and then Toiras surveyed the musketeers.

"Impressive, Tréville! An excellent result with a minimum of fuss; your men live up to their reputation and dealt with the situation swiftly and methodically. I trust you did not suffer many casualties?"

"Thank you, Governor," Tréville responded. "I assure you that all my men escaped injury or worse."

"Such is their expertise, eh, Tréville? No wonder they are referred to as the King's élite. Could do with some of them amongst my own men, don't you agree, Schomberg?"

"We'll have them with us now, Toiras. We will join our forces and go after the enemy; rid this island of them once and for all." He stood in the stirrups so that he could be seen even more easily by as many of the soldiers as possible, although they would not all be able to hear him. Smiling encouragingly, he raised his voice and urged his own faithful following. "Now let us see if we can get ourselves some more English prisoners to present to His Majesty."

The rallying, affirmative shouts spread through the men like wildfire and they jostled, pressing forward in their eagerness to be in position as the combined forces set off in pursuit of the English. Although Schomberg and Toiras both had cavalry, Tréville opted for keeping his musketeers on foot for this engagement. He had seen the maps of the western end of the island and knew that, where they were heading, firm ground for fighting was at a premium.

To reach Loix meant crossing a narrow causeway whilst on each side was treacherous marshes. Although still outnumbered, the French had a combined force of just over five thousand and, as they marched relentlessly westward, they would be driving the English onward, catching them in a bottleneck at the eastern end of the causeway. They would be forced to engage with the French to set up a defensive rear guard to enable those ahead to cross to relative safety. If too many of the English successfully traversed the causeway, they could establish a defensive position and pick off the French easily if they attempted to follow and prevent the enemy from returning to their ships.

The Musketeers marched behind their Captain, all in step and the pace gruelling, talking at a minimum as they conserved breath and energy for what lay ahead. The three _Inseparables_ were together, taking up their familiar position immediately behind their Captain, each watching the set of his shoulders, head up, back straight and striding out but they knew him well and understood that his silence was indicative of him thinking through strategies and a range of potential outcomes once they arrived at their destination. Athos had seen the same maps when he worked with Tréville and he remembered the lie of the land to the east of the Citadel. He, too, was considering the range of possible eventualities and he would have loved to discuss ideas with the Captain but he knew that now was not the time; Tréville was lost in his own thoughts.

The march was relentless and those at the front of the French forces could see the tail end of Buckingham's men desperately hurrying onwards, trying to stay ahead and beyond range. At last, Schomberg called a halt and the men took advantage of the brief respite to sink to the ground, snatching what rest they could before the final onslaught. The Marshal called officers - including Toiras and Tréville - for a brief and impromptu military meeting before they advanced.

Approximately sixty Musketeers had accompanied Tréville on the march in the aftermath of the attack on the English gunners and they were sitting in a massive group, quietly talking amongst themselves but ever alert, not lounging like some of the other soldiers.

"Won't be long now," Porthos observed as the strategic meeting broke up and Tréville strode back towards them. His men were about to scramble to their feet but he indicated to them to remain where they were; they just shuffled closer, leaving a path for him to walk into their midst to facilitate hearing his orders. He outlined the plan and they listened in silence, each man fully cognisant of the fact that the next engagement with the enemy was going to be brutal, bloody and, hopefully, brief if the English had the common sense to surrender, caught, as they would be, en masse at the entrance to the causeway.

The Captain let the men load their pistols and check powder and shot before getting to their feet. They were unlikely to have the opportunity to reload once they attacked and would resort to their rapiers in close combat. Finesse with the blade in the thrusts and parries would lose their skilled beauty of movement and would descend into a desperate fight for life, supported by the inevitable punching, elbowing, head-butting, gouging and kicking in order to bring down an opponent. They only thing they could hope for would be a quick capitulation on the part of the English when they realised they were trapped between the marshes and the French with the narrow causeway the only means of escape.

As they prepared to move out, Tréville caught sight of a familiar action, a ritual that was not done on every occasion. The three _Inseparables_ stood together and Porthos extended a hand.

"All for one," he intoned.

The other two glanced at each other and Aramis extended his right hand to cover that of Porthos; Athos set his own hand on the top.

"And one for all," they chorused in low voices, eyeing each other carefully, further words unnecessary. They were to look after themselves and each other where possible in the heat of battle.

The English did not capitulate. They panicked.

Buckingham had planned the route for an alternate evacuation and, during the siege, had given orders for a temporary redoubt to be built. The expectation might be for that redoubt to be at the eastern end of the causeway to provide cover for the retreating men across the narrow strip of firm ground but the instruction had seen it constructed at the western end to reinforce their defences there. With the French cavalry splitting and riding around to the north and south in order to drive the enemy foot soldiers into a more concentrated mass and the pike men forming a formidable wall, a proportion of the English turned to fight and opened fire.

The rest ran for the causeway.

Pushing empty pistols through their belts, Aramis, Porthos and Athos drew their rapiers and prepared to give chase, engaging with anyone who stood in their way, faces grim and blood-spattered as they carved themselves out a passage towards the causeway which was fast becoming a scene of utter carnage with the English doing much of the work for them.

They were fighting amongst themselves to get onto the causeway, a matter of feet wide at best. For every man who found purchase for his feet and successfully put an increased distance between himself and the French, there were two who pushed, pulled and struggled for space, one of whom would inevitably fall off into the murky water. Others would not wait and plunged off solid ground and into the marshes, willing to take the chance that they could wade to safety but, as they became mired in the mud, they became easy prey to the French muskets that systematically began picking them off.

The result was a terrifying bedlam. Shots mingled with the intimidating yells of those in pursuit; the frantic shouts of the struggling men ranged from the angry to the desperate. Those trapped in the cloying mud called for help but largely went ignored and their pleas became more pitiful as they were knocked over and trampled into the marsh by other fleeing men. The sounds of men dying in battle was imprinted in the memory for life but the sounds of many all drowning took that horror to a whole new level.

Athos, Porthos and Aramis were fighting close to each other at the edge of the main ground to the left of the causeway. As Porthos dispatched another opponent, he wiped the man's blood from his own face and took a step backwards, his chest heaving for breath and thankful for the pause as he cast a rapid glance around to see how his brothers' were faring.

Aramis was holding his own against a man of similar height and reach but who obviously did not have the same range of skills and was struggling, the fear of imminent death clearly etched in his features.

A little further off, Athos was fighting a man who was taller even than Porthos, a fierce man with long trailing hair and a ferocious expression. His sword was old, broader and heftier and he was swinging it with complete abandon, as if he were trying to decapitate the musketeer. Caught off balance, Athos stumbled back a few paces, his main gauche coming up to ward off another weighty blow as he circled out of range. His opponent, having put his full weight behind the attack, stumbled forward and with a howl of rage, Athos plunged his rapier upwards through the man's side. He wrenched the rapier free but the man reeled to face him, bringing up his sword for a final assault. Suddenly, all power and force went from him, his sword arm dropped and the weapon fell from numb fingers. Seconds later, the man took a single step and pitched forward lifeless.

"Athos!" Porthos roared in warning.

Pure instinct took over as Athos brought up an elbow, catching a new adversary in the throat, before he slashed backwards with his main gauche, giving himself time to revolve and thrust with the rapier to fell another foe. Straightening, he looked to Porthos and smiled his thanks.

The smile froze on his face though as something else distracted him. Aramis had a new opponent who, in sheer desperation, was forcing him backwards towards the marsh by swinging wildly with a musket, using it as a vicious club. It hit his sword arm and his weapon clattered uselessly to the ground. Before he could react, the musket swung again and caught him a glancing blow across the side of the head and left shoulder. As pain exploded and his vision blurred, he let out a startled gasp and collapsed backwards into the marsh and among the feet of other frantic combatants.

"Aramis!" Athos screamed, running to the spot where he had last seen his brother, Porthos hot on his heels.

The marsh was a seething mass of struggling men, bloodied water, disturbed mud and an accumulation of bodies, some partially swallowed in mud, others caught in reeds and marsh grass whilst more floated face down in the dark water.

Athos waded in, pushing corpses aside and slashing with his main gauche at anyone who got in his way as his eyes raked the carnage.

"Aramis!" he screamed again, conscious that Porthos was at his side. "I can't see him! Where is he?"


	58. Chapter 58

_**Well here it is, at long last! I am back to this story after far too long and I cannot thank you enough for being so patient with me on this one; I am so sorry to have let you down. It was really hard coming back to it on a number of levels and I feel nervous about this chapter after the long wait I have put you all through.**_

 _ **A slightly shorter chapter to 'get us going' again and an interlude that focuses upon the three brothers who seek to be together again, even in the heat of battle.**_

CHAPTER 58

Time seemed to distort, existence warping into a mocking slow motion as the hunt for Aramis grew ever more desperate and interminable but, in reality, it was mere seconds from the shocking moment when he fell back into the marsh out of sight and his two brothers-in-arms surged forward, oblivious to the other battles for survival that surrounded them.

"Where is he?" Athos yelled as Porthos waded purposefully through the water, knocking aside those who dared to be in his way as he pushed and pulled floating bodies out of his path. His movements and expression were determined, knowing that he had to make haste if Aramis were to be found alive. However, he was made more nervous by his brother's shouts, for he heard in Athos' voice a tone that had never been there before.

The swordsman could never be described as one given to panic but, at that moment, he was the closest to surrendering to the feeling that he had ever been and it was not pleasant. He stood breathing hard, water above his knees and head turning rapidly as he searched in vain, fear for the missing man beginning to choke him.

"Got him!" Porthos roared and Athos looked towards him just as he began to drag a mud-covered figure through the marsh in the direction of firmer ground.

Heart bursting with relief, Athos splashed to intercept him and give his help. Porthos had the limp musketeer by the scruff of the neck and Athos, having failed to get a purchase on Aramis' clothing because of the slippery mud, wrapped his arms around the man's legs and heaved the lower portion of his body out of the water, before scrambling on his knees onto the ground beside him.

Aramis was virtually unrecognisable as he was coated in a thick layer of mud from head to toe that clogged and disfigured his erstwhile fine features.

"Is he breathing?" Athos dared ask, his own voice hardly more than a whisper as he watched Porthos struggle with the filth to find a pulse spot.

Growling in frustration, Porthos tried to wipe away some of the muck around Aramis' mouth and leaned close, hoping that he would feel the light tickle of warm breath against his cheek.

"Got you kerchief?" he ordered.

Athos stood and rummaged through pockets until he found the required item and handed it to Porthos just as a mud-covered Englishman erupted from the marsh nearby and launched himself at the group with a slime-covered weapon and an animalistic scream.

"Not now!" Athos screamed back as he dived for his rapier that he had abandoned moments earlier when he went after Aramis. Rolling, he came to his feet in a fluid, cat-like move, weapon slicing through the air before him in vicious warning. "Not now!" he repeated as he lunged, catching the Englishman off guard and wrong-footed on the treacherous ground.

There was a moment of surprise on the soldier's face, arms flailing as he lost his balance, poised at a precarious angle until gravity was victorious and he pitched back into the mire.

"Aramis!" Athos demanded of Porthos, afraid of hearing the worst.

"He's breathing," was the matter-of-fact reply as if there had never been any doubt.

"Then why didn't you say?" Athos did not know whether to be put out or relieved first.

Porthos merely shrugged. "You were busy. Look out!"

The change to a shouted warning had Athos spinning on the spot ready to confront a new attack – only to discover that it was the same Englishman, spitting muddy water and mouthing what could only have been obscenities in his native tongue as he glared ridiculously at Athos, the whites of his eyes incongruous with the filth that covered him.

"You again!" Athos huffed in annoyance; he was far more concerned with finding out about his fallen brother than dealing with this fellow who was turning into a monumental time-waster. Instinctively, he adopted the swordsman's posture, weight evenly and lightly balanced and easily sidestepped the Englishman's ungainly charge, the man staggering past him and struggling to maintain his feet.

Their encounter this time was similarly brief but that was largely due to the anger raging through Athos at this man who dared to distract him from what he really wanted to do – see for himself that Aramis truly lived. Had Porthos not been concentrating upon his stricken friend, he would have recognised the tell-tale signs that signalled Athos as being in his no-nonsense killing mode; the green eyes narrowed, became fixed upon his opponent and utterly devoid of any emotion. Then there was the familiar stance, the light-footedness and easy movement that was a joy to watch in its fluidity and grace – as long as the watcher was not also the opponent! Coupled with the mastery and skill of thrust and parry with the rapier and main-gauche, they combined to make Athos a chilling danger.

There was no error, no wasted move and no second chance as the altercation came to an abrupt end. The Englishman stopped in his tracks as he gazed down in awe and horror at the rapier embedded in his belly. Pulling it free, Athos watched the man fall like a tree, face forward, and then dispassionately wiped the blade clean on the back of the pone man's jerkin. His eyes swept the area immediately around him and, having determined that his brothers were safe from further attack, dropped once more beside Aramis.

Porthos was still using the handkerchief in a vain attempt to wipe Aramis' eyes, nose and mouth free from mud but the square of material was already saturated with muck and only seemed to be moving the glutinous filth from one part of the musketeer's face to another.

"It is not very effective," Athos said obviously.

"It might've helped if it'd been clean to start with," Porthos complained and looked up in time to see the kerchief's owner reward him with a withering glare.

"I apologise for not having my laundry done more regularly but the situation in which we find ourselves can only be described as a little out of the ordinary," was Athos' scathing rejoinder. "Besides, I am not in the habit of taking my best kerchiefs onto a battlefield."

Porthos studied him carefully for a moment, not altogether sure whether Athos was being serious but then he saw the gleam in the swordsman's eyes and the accompanying twitch to the corner of his mouth. He was saved from having to find a suitably cutting response as Aramis coughed and spluttered into life, the sound harsh, revolting and indicative of the marsh water and mud he had swallowed and worse. Gasping and wheezing for breath, he began to struggle, his eyes wide and bulging as he fought to sit up, believing that elevation would rid him of the dire sensation of choking.

Porthos supported him and held him forward as he was suddenly convulsed with a fit of deep coughing that evidently shifted what he had imbibed, for he suddenly ejected a stream of filthy water and more onto the ground between his legs. Slapping him hard between the shoulder blades, Porthos thought he was aiding the process until, convinced that Aramis had finished, he dragged him backwards to a spot away from the mess he had created.

"Maybe next time you're thinkin' of goin' swimmin', you'll remember to keep your mouth closed," Porthos scolded, his words a vain attempt to hide the fear he had felt when Aramis had suddenly disappeared. He fooled no-one in his bid, least of all his brothers.

Aramis sat there, chest heaving, head bowed as he continued to draw loud, panting breaths into troubled lungs. He reached out a hand and felt for Porthos' shoulder, the fingers gripping tightly as he sought to reassure him, for he was unable as yet to find his voice.

He was a sorry sight, nothing like the debonair marksman he usually was. Soaked to the skin, his hair flattened to his skull, every inch of him was caked in mud, save for the smudged areas round his eyes, nose and mouth. As he recovered his senses sufficiently, Athos had risen once more to his feet and stood guard, weapons at the ready as he ensured that no-one would interrupt them in the care of their recovering brother.

It transpired that little fighting remained on this side of the causeway, the combat moving onto and across the narrow causeway as Schomberg and his men pursued the English. Even the very sounds of men, venting their wrath and terror, screaming at an explosion of pain or crying in their death throes seemed to be receding, as were the clashes of steel upon steel and the occasional discharge of a firearm when someone somewhere found the time to reload.

Around Athos lay the sad, human detritus of battle: the wounded lay groaning and writhing upon the ground whilst the dead lay or floated as marionettes cut free from their strings, arms and legs often at unnatural angles where they had fallen. Some of the terrified English soldiers had surrendered and were being rounded up by Schomberg's men to kneel in the dirt, hands behind their heads, their eyes registering only bleak submission or horror at what the future might bring. An army camp would be rare indeed if its occupants did not entertain themselves with spreading stories about what might befall a man if he were taken by the enemy. Their guards stood over them, weapons at the ready; some men were clearly jubilant and anticipating a thorough French rout of the enemy as they taunted their prisoners, whilst others remained silent, contemplative, thankful that they had lived to see another day and mindful that the outcome could so easily have been different. Some crossed themselves, a gesture of appreciation to the Almighty for apparently having given them His support.

The sombre mood was broken by a deep, throaty chuckle; its owner tried to suppress the jollity but failed miserably. In the aftermath of battle, when feelings still ran high, it was infectious as it grew.

It was Porthos.

Faced with the ridiculous sight of his filthy brother and knowing how meticulous he was generally in his appearance – even during the time they had been under siege in the Citadel – Porthos found the contradiction highly amusing. The tension of battle and the fear that he had lost his brother in the murky marshes peaked and shattered the only way he knew how – in laughter.

Affronted by the reaction, Aramis turned doleful eyes on the big man but the expression was totally incongruous with his appearance. The result was inevitable as Porthos erupted into a loud guffaw. Seeking sympathy from his more stoic brother, Aramis looked to Athos for some expected support – only to see him struggling for control.

Athos did not laugh; it was one of the things they had gradually come to learn about him and accept, yet it was hard to think that the past – which he strove to keep concealed from them – was so traumatic that it had drained him of any light-hearted expression. When he did smile, it was little more than a quirk of his lips but there was an undeniable warmth in his eyes that betrayed his deeper feelings. Occasionally, just occasionally, the brothers or Treville were rewarded with a broad grin that was so precious in its rarity that they treasured the memory.

There was no mistaking it now though; Athos was grinning and trying desperately to hide it. More than that, a definite chuckle was bubbling up and he attempted to smother it, but it escaped in a snort and he turned away. However, there was no hiding the shaking of his shoulders. Composing his features, he turned back, took one look at Aramis and almost gave in to the suppressed mirth. His clasped his hand over his mouth and studied the bedraggled musketeer for a few moments until he could trust himself to speak.

"I am sorry, Aramis, it is just that …. It's just …." He was fortuitously interrupted in his pronouncement as Porthos let out a howl of laughter, rocking backwards and forwards in merriment and slapping his thighs at the vision.

"Porthos," Athos remonstrated with him. "It is not fair to laugh so at Aramis when he has been through such an ordeal." It might have been a little better if he had managed to sound convincing but it just made the big man worse.

"Fine friends you are when you can be entertained by my humiliation," Aramis objected.

"Oh Aramis," Athos sighed, his arms opening wide as he squatted beside the marksman and, oblivious to the wet and filth, wrapped him in his arms and held him tight in – for him – an uncommon display of brotherhood, "it is strange to see you in so dire a state that it is amusing, but it is more the release of the worry we felt when we saw you fall in the marsh and could not help you quickly enough. It was a parlous situation that could have had a catastrophic ending; we are just so pleased to see you," and he released his friend.

"Look," he insisted, gesturing to his uniform. He was already soaked and dirty from the thighs downwards where he had been splashing through the marsh but now mud was smeared all over his doublet and on one side of his face where he had held Aramis close. "I may not look quite as bad as you but I would not be welcomed at the palace right now."

Aramis sniggered at the sight for Athos, like all the musketeers, was immaculately turned out when they were on duty guarding the King in Paris; those days seemed so far away now that they were more like a distant dream.

Quieter now, Porthos joined the two and drew them both together into another bear-hug. "Reckon we can get to the end of this war with the English without either one of you doing anything else stupid or suicidal?"

"We can but try," Athos agreed, not prepared to promise something rashly that he might not be able to keep.

"Are you hurt? That English cretin caught you a hard blow across the head and shoulder," Porthos asked, his levity tempered by concern regarding any injury Aramis might have lurking unnoticed beneath the mud.

Aramis raised a hand to his temple and winced. "I might have collected some bruises along the way and I am sore but I don't think I am bleeding." He flashed a familiar smile at both of them. "I will live."

"Glad to hear it," Porthos asserted, standing back and surveying the newly muddied state of his own uniform. "Guess Athos an' I are cleaning you up between us."

"I'm just sharing, my friend, just sharing!" Aramis exclaimed as he clapped the other musketeer on the back.

Suddenly, a recognisable voice rose above any noise on the edge of the marshes.

"Musketeers, to me!" Tréville hollered, mustering his men to see who was still able to fight.

The three _Inseparables_ moved as one towards their captain and he eyed their dishevelled state.

"Are you hurt?" he asked Aramis. "Are you capable of continuing? If not, you can remain here until we return."

"Just try and stop me!" Aramis declared, the drying mud cracking on his face as he grinned broadly.

Looking round at his men, Tréville did an approximate headcount of those who surrounded him. The majority stood willing and able and those who were not present would be sought after or mourned when they had the time; he tried not to imagine the absent faces. His features were tired and marred with spatters of blood, none seeming to be his own fortunately.

"Then I suggest we get moving, gentlemen. We still have to persuade the English that they are not welcome on Ré and we cannot let Schomberg have all the glory."

Close to exhaustion, the remnants of the musketeer regiment were not daunted and gave a rousing cheer in response to their Captain's politely phrased order. He raised his rapier as a signal and the group spread out to make their way across the causeway at a run in order to catch up with the fighting. Near the front and keeping Tréville in sight, the three brothers ran together. They had come through a day's fighting and were still side by side, determined as ever, for this was a war they intended to win.


	59. Chapter 59

_**Oh my, thank you so much for the overwhelming reception of chapter 58 and for your patience, comments and continued support. The final 'push' continues below …**_

CHAPTER 59

It was over.

The siege of Saint-Martin de Ré had lasted for three months and now, in one final, brutal and bloody battle, it had ended.

Buckingham had set up his temporary redoubt at the western end of the causeway but there had been little that his defenders could do in the face of panicking Englishmen pouring over the narrow stretch of solid ground pursued, as they were, by a phalanx of French pikemen, the first to be sent across by Toiras and Schomberg. English musketeers hesitated but had no clear sight of the enemy in the rear, such were the numbers of their brothers-in-arms caught in a bottleneck of panic between the redoubt and the lethal pikes. The slaughter was on a sickening scale and they watched in horror as English soldiers were cut down from behind or, in terrified panic, did what they had avoided at the eastern end, and jumped into the marsh, desperate to escape the thrust of an angry blade, only to drown in the murky waters. They did not want to fire upon their own colleagues but the first of the enemy were relentlessly moving onwards, caught up in the mêlée as well and it left the men at the redoubt in a terrible dilemma. They needed to give their colleagues as long as possible to pass them and head to the coast at Loix but, equally, they could not allow hordes of rampaging Frenchmen to gain firmer ground either. Some braved a well-aimed shot, bringing down a pikeman, but the occasional compatriot was sacrificed to a poor aim.

At length, the causeway cleared of retreating English and, as the pikemen poured onto a wider expanse of solid ground, volley after volley of musket fire cut into them, slaying too many of them and forcing them to halt their advance.

The redoubt held on for as long as possible but in the end, even they had to give up precious ground and hurry in the wake of their countrymen in the direction of Loix and the safety of transport. The rout continued, though, with the French following as closely as they dared, taking a number of prisoners. Invigorated by their apparent success, the French continued with grim determination towards Loix, intent upon driving the English from the island. At the town, the English launched a valiant rear guard action, holding off the combined French forces and, when it seemed that the attackers were retreating, they had the decision to pursue, reclaiming lost terrain, but the command was to head for the beach and the ships so that is what they did, and swiftly.

The whole conflict seemed to take forever but was merely a few hours from Schomberg's appearance, a few hours which underscored Buckingham's disgrace and rendered over half his force - several thousand men - lost.

Some fell during the initial landing at Sablanceau whilst more succumbed to the sickness that had swept the English camp, but there was no escaping the terrible truth made plain in the countryside between Saint-Martin and Loix. The casualties in those last hours were defied description. Many were seriously or mortally wounded and some surrendered but by far the greatest number was of the dead, their corpses littering the open ground in the early autumn or piling up in the marshes, the harsh reality being that they numbered so many, most were unable to float and others had been pressed down into the mud so deep, that they would probably never be found again, not least until a significant drought drained the better part of the marshland.

It would be some weeks before the news would reach the King's ears at La Rochelle that Buckingham had safely disembarked in England and headed to London, where he had been greeted warmly and completely exonerated by Charles, the blame being apportioned elsewhere, namely upon those who had failed to provide him with much needed reinforcements and provisions. Parliament was in an uproar and the tension between the monarch and his government was escalating to a disturbing high.

Louis could not deny the initial stirrings of fear for his sister and brother-in-law. It made him ever more thankful for the listening ear and the strong guiding hand of Cardinal Richelieu as, he reluctantly admitted to himself, he was not averse to making mistakes of his own or engaging in a head-on disagreement with some of his more vocal council members. He hoped that any such dire and potential breakdown in relationships would be kept from French shores but the Huguenots were certainly creating serious incursions into the nation's stability and these needed to be curtailed.

For now, though, his army was victorious on Ré and the surviving English had fled back to their ships. Gone was the intimidating and impressive array of vessels that had arrived _en masse_ back in July. In the fading light of the cool October evening, sails were hoisted as soon as a ship had taken on board enough men to make the departure worthwhile. The stark reality was that preparations to leave took very little time when compared to their arrival. Equipment and food-stores had been recklessly abandoned, a costly discarding of supplies that could be re-used by the remaining French soldiers. More than that, the embarkation of less than half the original fighting force was much faster. The weather held as the small boats went back and forth, ferrying exhausted and broken-spirited men to their sea-going sanctuaries.

Schomberg, Toiras and Tréville stood quietly together watching the enemy fleeing from the island. It could have been so easy to commence a ruthless slaughter of the English as they waited desperately for transport, some wading into the turf in a paltry attempt to increase the distance between themselves and those who were in pursuit. They vainly set up a wall of defiant defence, men ranged along the expanse of beach, staring down the French and weapons at the ready, but it was clear that they had little fight left in them and soon not even a desultory firing of a pistol could be heard.

The French infantry had spilled onto the beach and spread out so that two long lines of battle weary men faced each other some fifty yards apart, each daring the other to move to attack, to give them the excuse to retaliate but, inwardly, hoping and praying that all would be prepared simply to wait as the English numbers dwindled.

"Let them go," Toiras ordered tiredly, his victory allowing him some magnanimity. "We have enough blood of the English staining our hands and soaking into our ground; it serves no purpose to gratuitously shed any more. Tréville?"

"Sir," the musketeer captain visibly straightened.

"Spread the word. When the beach is almost empty of the English, have the prisoners brought up under a heavy guard. They may collect them too."

"You would have them released?" Schomberg raised an eyebrow at the command.

Toiras looked back at the gathering of dispirited prisoners sitting huddled on the ground.

"How many would you say are there? Three? Four hundred?" He watched as both Tréville and Schomberg nodded their agreement. "I do not want to be responsible for feeding and guarding them during their incarceration. How long would it last and at what cost to us? We would have to wait for negotiations to open and I am not sure how long that would take given Buckingham's failure. They have none of our men to arrange an exchange. No, let them go; we have broken the back of the English enterprise on the Ȋle de Ré. See about the injured too. If any walking wounded are here, they can be handed over as well. We will do our best for those who are seriously incapacitated and we will bury the many dead; that in itself will be no easy or swift task."

He was staring out to sea, watching the activities of the fleeing English as he spoke, his manner reflective.

Tréville hesitated before speaking. "If you'll excuse me then, Governor, Marshall, I will go and see it done." He had taken only a couple of steps when Toiras' next words halted him.

"And when we have secured the defences, Captain, we must think about returning you and your men to His Majesty; I am sure that he must be missing you."

As he strode in the direction of the prisoners, Tréville allowed himself a small smile at the prospect of returning to the mainland. Who knew at this time whether or not Louis was still in the vicinity of La Rochelle? He may have grown tired of the stalemate on the island and headed back to Paris but, in his heart, the Captain fervently believed that the King would have remained and, he hoped, felt just a little concerned for the wellbeing of the musketeer regiment during the three-month siege. He had certainly still been there not many days since when Athos had made his audacious swim for, when he had recovered sufficiently from his ordeal, the musketeer had been welcomed into the monarch's presence to make his report. No doubt there was still work to be done at La Rochelle itself but there would be a reassuring familiarity in providing the royal bodyguard once more.

He knew it would be some days before they were in a position to sail away from the island – they would have to wait for transport for a start – and then another thought, more evil in nature, struck him and the smile dissolved into a soft laugh. The biggest problem would be getting Athos to leave dry land for a final time! Perhaps his recent experiences at sea would help make going on board somewhat easier, even if they had done little to cure him of his tendency towards seasickness. There was a lightness in the officer's step at the prospect of leaving the constriction of the island, the thought of a job well done, but then he caught sight of the dead and dying and a heaviness threatened to overwhelm him. He had yet to discover how many of his men had received hurts and how many had fallen, never to rise again. His lips moved with a rapid, desperate prayer that his casualties would be light.

….

Darkness had fallen and all along the beach were the lights of small campfires. The English prisoners and some of the wounded had been sent after their colleagues and the French had jubilantly lined the shore, cheering at their departure.

Much remained to be done though.

The more serious casualties were tended to, along with the French injured, for they had not escaped unscathed. Prayers were said over the dying and no man was left alone if it was thought that he would not last the night.

It was clear that it did not matter from which side of the channel they hailed or which language they spoke, dying men were exactly the same. Some met their end in a defiant or submissive silence; others wept in fear or agony, whilst still more railed loudly against the unfairness of it, fighting off the inevitable until the last breath was choked from their bodies. There were those who did not look old enough to wield a weapon and who cried out for loved ones, terrified at the prospect of an eternal separation and darkness, and there were those of the French who passed amongst them, willing to offer a word of comfort. The _Inseparables_ worked quietly amongst this group; they were spared the labour and additional horrors of the burial detail for they were witness to enough of their own.

By the time the wounded and the dead had received due care, night had fallen and it was too late to start a march back to the Citadel. The marsh would have been too dangerous to cross anyway. It was senseless to risk the lives of men who were beyond exhaustion.

Before the onset of evening, Toiras had sent word back to the Citadel of the French victory and that they would, in all probability, spend the night where they were and travel the next morning. He had not specifically requested that supplies be brought to them so it was a genuine surprise to see two laden carts approaching the far end of the causeway. Serge deemed the horses and their loads to be too heavy to force them to make the perilous journey across what little remained of solid ground after the pounding it had taken at the height of battle so instructions were quickly issued to form a human chain to pass the much-needed victuals to the weary soldiers. It was a simple, cold repast but, to the men who had fought bitterly, lost comrades and yet survived to tell a tale, it was a banquet fit for a king and there were no complaints.

The men sank onto the beach, close to the fires they had lit with any available driftwood scavenged from the sand and thin branches torn or hacked from beyond the tree line. Weary, fed and warmed, a lassitude crept into their bodies that they had neither inclination nor energy to fight and gradually, as the autumn night turned colder and the stars grew ever brighter, the men's quiet murmurings and gentle laughter grew silent and they slept on with a skeleton guard and volunteers keeping watch with the wounded.

Lacking any form of blanket, the three _Inseparables_ lay curled around their meagre fire, whispering in the darkness.

"So much for Buckingham 'avin' a ship called _Triumph_ ," Porthos said, his scorn evident in his voice.

"There's no harm in being optimistic," Aramis countered. His tone suggested to those that knew him well that he was amused at the prospect.

"I prefer to think of it as being misplaced audacity," Athos added with darker thoughts of his time spent aboard the vessel prominent in his mind.

"I can't get over the human cost though," Aramis said when they had fallen silent for a while.

"There wasn't much of a strategy at the end; the poor souls were just tryin' to get out of our way," Porthos observed, trying to seek a logical explanation for the heavy casualties.

"There seemed to be little strategy throughout the siege," Athos went on. "It's as if Buckingham merely hoped to starve us out quickly and that we would meekly surrender so that he had to do as little as possible."

"It certainly seemed that way at times," Aramis agreed.

Another lull in their conversation ensued.

"It nearly worked though, didn't it?" Porthos ventured. "We were on the verge of surrenderin' – until Athos went an' did what he did, swimmin' to the mainland an' comin' back with the supplies an' the Marshall followin' an' all." He held his breath, wondering if Aramis was going to add any comment.

He did.

"Indeed we would have surrendered if he had not attempted it and succeeded," Aramis conceded eventually. "It was a brave thing to do …"

"Thank you," Athos acknowledged, believing him to have finished.

"And foolish and blockheaded and idiotic and suicidal and reckless and selfish and thoughtless and rash and careless and irresponsible and …" Aramis continued.

"I believe that I do understand your meaning," Athos cut in drily.

"I hope you do," Aramis countered, "and now we'll say no more about it."

There was another pause.

"Reckon we'll be goin' home anytime soon?" Porthos wondered.

"Don't see why not; our job here is done," Aramis added sleepily.

"Probably a few more days yet," Athos said. "There will be tasks to finish here before we can leave. They will want to make sure that there is no risk of the English changing their minds and returning."

"I would've thought Buckingham'd learned his lesson by now," Porthos growled.

"He didn't seem capable of learning any valuable lessons when he was here before," Aramis said lightly. "No, I believe he has gone; we'll finish up here and then we can all go back home." A thought crossed his mind and he sounded positively gleeful as he let his comments filter through the darkness. "Back to La Rochelle … back to the mainland …. across the water … on a ship."

Both he and Porthos laughed softly as his words were met by a string of surprisingly colourful expletives from the third member of their group.

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **Some of the final battle has been of my own invention with the exception of the position of the redoubt, the pursuit of the pikemen and the loss of a frightening number of Englishmen to drowning in the marshes.**_

 _ **The English did put up a last fight at Loix and their departure from the island was swift.**_

 _ **Buckingham did lose over half his force; accounts vary as to the number lost. One report said he only went back with 2000 of the original force of 7000 men. A ballad circulated with the line, "These things have lost our honour, men surmise: Thy treachery, neglect and cowardice' and a poem was written commemorating his fresh failure after the debacle of Cadiz.**_

 _ **French casualties in that final push barely reached 300.**_

 _ **Buckingham did return to England in disgrace but Charles I forgave him, blaming the failure of the enterprise on the Earl of Holland, who had only set sail with a strong relief fleet in the first days of November, which was, of course, too late. Another fleet, Scottish, composed of 30 ships with 5000 men was on its way in the October but was broken up by a storm off the Norfolk coast.**_

 _ **Wanting to make amends, he did attempt to launch another expedition to La Rochelle the following August but was assassinated in Portsmouth by John Felton.**_

 _ **There were other skirmishes during the siege and the French did not always escape so lightly but I made the conscious decision not to try to include them all!**_

 _ **I think I forgot to add in an earlier chapter that the Frenchman who did the 'Athos act' and successfully made the swim to the mainland was one Solanier of the Champagne regiment. Brave man! (or foolish and blockheaded and idiotic etc …. I believe you get the drift!)**_

 _ **The final beach scene reminds me just a little of the evacuation from Dunkirk in WWII with the small ships ferrying the English soldiers out to the larger vessels but there all similarity ends.**_

 _ **Back to Paris then and 1631!**_


	60. Chapter 60

_**Dear all, thank you so much for the great comments. Apologies for the little typos that succeeded in getting through the spellcheck last time. I think I would have been interested to see the English wading through turf (it should, of course, have read surf!)**_

 _ **If any errors have slipped through here, my profuse apologies. Just staying at work, biding time and having something to eat before I head to the theatre in half an hour for dress rehearsal. Our Christmas show opens tomorrow night for a four-day run so I can't promise another chapter this week but as we have only just returned to the story, I didn't want you to have to wait another few days!**_

 _ **As the 1627 tale of Ȋle de Ré reaches its conclusion, events return to 1631 Paris … and d'Artagnan!**_

 _ **(Of course, I have to persuade you to accept that their telling of the story was much faster than my writing of it; I tried to describe it for you, they were soldiers just relating the pertinent bits. That's my excuse anyway, otherwise they would have been shut away all together for weeks and no musketeering would have been done!)**_

CHAPTER 60

It was to be another week before Tréville and his men were able to sail for the mainland because, as Athos had predicted, much remained to be done and all were required to do their part.

Weapons were gathered up from the extensive battlefield, cleaned, checked for reliability and inventoried before being stored in the Citadel's armoury. Likewise, the cannons were retrieved from the English camp along with barrels of powder, shot and other ammunition. Any other equipment, such as tents, cooking paraphernalia, medical supplies and bedding left behind by the departing soldiers was collected, assessed and similarly inventoried for further use. Any bedding or clothing was washed clean with boiling water and soap, memories of the sickness that had bedevilled both camps too fresh in everyone's mind to take any unnecessary chances.

At the first available opportunity, the women and children were escorted back into the town of Saint Martin and there was a noisy and joyous reunion with loved ones. Even there, food had begun to be in short supply and stores from the Citadel were readily shared now that they could be assured of more frequent and plentiful deliveries from the mainland. Impromptu celebrations broke out to which the soldiers were invited by the local inhabitants as grateful thanks for being delivered from the invasion force.

Not all saw it like that though, for some in the town had been Huguenots, Protestants who had welcomed the enemy with open arms because of a like-minded religious belief. With Toiras clearly ensconced as the governing power upon the island once again, there were some only too ready to betray those known to them who had formed too close an alliance with the English. Any who had actively helped Buckingham's men or who had been hostile towards their Catholic neighbours were rounded up and taken back to the Citadel for interrogation and an unspecified period of incarceration.

It was a task that had fallen to the Musketeer regiment. Their very name, reputation as the King's men, upholders of the law and their identifiable pauldrons aided them in their role. To many, they were hailed as the harbingers of restored order, re-enforcing the tenets and principles with which many of the citizens were familiar. To those they marched to arrest, they were figures of fear. There would be no unnecessary ill-treatment – Tréville hoped and trusted that his men were far too disciplined for that – but the future looked bleak for those who had associated with and assisted the English.

At least it spared the musketeers the grim task of garnering the bodies.

The dead – English included - were buried with Catholic ceremony. Those French who had died once the siege began had been buried within the confines of the Citadel when there had been no other alternative, but now the order was given that their final resting place should be in the town's main cemetery where they were afforded all due honours and individual markers as all had been identified. The English corpses were taken by the cartload back to the outskirts of what had been their camp. The burial place where those who had died of sickness were put was easily identifiable and a fence was constructed to mark the area. Those who had formed the rear guard with the cannons when Schomberg had landed had been interred at an end of one of the trenches and the decision was now taken to use the remaining trenches as ready-dug mass graves for those who had died on the last day.

It was three days before the gruesome undertaking had been completed and if, along the way, a deceased Englishman was separated from any of his meagre belongings by a French soldier, nothing was said for any gain was viewed as the spoils of war, a justifiable reward for the task was far from pleasant. The Frenchmen quickly resorted to tying neckerchiefs over their noses and mouths, especially when they were dragging the bodies from the stinking mire but fortunately, with the weather turning colder, there had not been time for bloating and putrefaction to begin in earnest. Local priests were brought out to intone the funerary words over the English dead and if they had any negative views about their responsibilities, they did not dare voice them.

For the first couple of days, Toiras, Schomberg and Tréville had kept to themselves in the Governor's office, prioritising the tasks and issuing the relevant orders before settling to write their respective reports on the events surrounding the rout of the English. At that point, mindful of the fact that those who had been besieged had endured taxing circumstances, Schomberg made the decision to remain on the island with his men for at least another two weeks, shouldering much of the responsibility for ensuring the improvement of defences. The King and Cardinal had more than enough men to maintain a stranglehold on the besieged La Rochelle which had officially commenced when the Huguenots within had deigned to open fire. Word could be sent to Schomberg quickly enough if he was needed before then. He had kept one small ship at La Prée, having dismissed the others when he and his reinforcements had landed. When the English had gone, he had sent messengers to the small fortress to sail for the mainland to inform His Majesty of the French victory. He had also requested a larger vessel to return in order to transport the Musketeers, horses and equipment back to the King's camp.

Even with due care and attention, Aramis was still finding dried mud on parts of his body and in his hair several days later but his negligence could be partly explained by the headache that refused to go away for some time, despite the different herbal draughts he swallowed. His shoulder had developed an impressively large and colourful bruise that made it awkward to move. He was still having difficulty in raising the affected arm above his head when they were about to depart from the island. He had also acquired an irritating cough but he ascribed that to downing too much of the dirty marsh water and confidently – and correctly – self-diagnosed a complete recovery within a matter of days.

With their immediate assignments concluded, the _Inseparables_ were enjoying a couple of days of relative relaxation, not enforced by a siege mentality. They were sitting together in the weak warmth of a late-October sunshine, cleaning everything they owned from the leather of their uniforms, boots and weapons belts to maintaining the weapons themselves. The tension, filth and danger of the battle now over, a weariness had claimed them that they initially found hard to shake off but now, through uninterrupted sleep and satisfied bellies filled with good food, they were beginning to feel more like themselves. Their camaraderie was easy-going, the light-hearted banter and teasing that had seldom departed from them (except at the very worst of times) was back in force and Porthos' loud, booming laugh and the lighter, infectious one of Aramis were frequently to be heard. Tréville could not refrain from smiling when he witnessed them on more than one occasion, almost helpless with something that had highly amused the two of them and, he believed, it was often at Athos' expense if the man's arched eyebrow and sigh of imposed suffering were anything to go by.

It all contributed to his sense of relief on a mission accomplished, for the losses of his much-valued men were not as high as he had initially feared and those who were wounded were all destined to fully recover. He was now eager to leave the island and see what life had in store for them back at La Rochelle, for he was under no illusion that they would repair quickly to Paris if the King were intent upon being present at the subjugation of the Huguenots.

Porthos and Aramis kept a steady eye upon the comings and goings of Delacroix. Although they were completely unaware of the final conversation that had passed between the weasel of a man and the Captain, they did not trust him. Who could, when he had so readily employed the services of other men, by fair means or foul, to do his dirty work for him? They were convinced that he had had something to do with the demise of the two cavalrymen, directly or otherwise, and they saw the continuing scowls he levelled in Athos' direction whenever they were near each other. For Athos' part, he totally ignored his nemesis and that was, no doubt, adding fuel to the proverbial fire as far as Delacroix' intense animosity towards him was concerned. Both Porthos and Aramis believed that the situation between Delacroix and their brother was far from over and they were ever watchful, ready to protect him if the need arose. In addition, Delacroix' attitude towards the Captain was a cause for concern now. He was careful what he said, when and to whom, and he was never openly insolent to the Captain, but there was something in his mien that spoke of a festering hatred there also.

Tréville seemed to sense it, not that he was bothered by anything that the irritating man said or did these days. He fell short of the Captain's expectations of a member of the musketeer regiment and, if things did not abruptly improve, Tréville thought that he would be searching for a means by which he could curtail the man's commission, sooner rather than later. Ever one to give a man a second chance (or, in the case of Delacroix, a long line of chances but then Tréville had to admit to himself that he had done the same for Athos in one way or another), Tréville hoped that being back on the mainland, away from the psychological and physical bounds of being besieged, Delacroix might find a renewed purpose in his oath of allegiance to regiment, King and country. Well, Tréville could always hope, he conceded ruefully.

The day came for their departure and the weather was reasonable for the time of year. There was a brisk wind but that was all to the good. Tréville spent part of the early morning taking his leave of the Governor and Schomberg but he was at the quayside supervising the final loading of equipment well before they sailed.

"Shan't be sorry to see the back of this place," Porthos announced as he laboured.

"It has undoubtedly been an adventure," Aramis agreed, nudging at the big man with his elbow to attract his attention and nodding in Athos' direction.

Their brother had toiled beside them in tense silence for much of the time, chewing on his lower lip whilst he worked. They sensed that he was already dreading the journey to the mainland.

"Tréville has slipped me a bottle of brandy; medicinal purposes, he says, but we know it's just in case Athos gets difficult again," Aramis whispered as the two bent over the same heavy sack.

"'E's workin' 'imself up to it by the looks of 'im," Porthos acknowledged as he surreptitiously studied his friend and grinned. "Claude's already been to see me to offer 'is help too if we needed it."

"Yes but we're in a better position to deal with the situation now," Aramis continued. "You know what they say? To be forewarned is to be fore-armed. We should be able to handle him."

Porthos snorted in amusement as if he did not entirely agree. "Reckon we'll keep 'im busy till the last and then get 'im on board."

"Good plan," Aramis agreed. "You stay with him and I'll go on board early and pick a prime spot on deck and then you can escort him to join me there." He emphasised the word 'escort' as he looked at the sky. "At least it does not look like rain this time."

"Thank goodness. It was so bad last time that I thought I'd never get dry or warm again. Who knows, maybe Athos'll 'ave a decent crossing too."

Aramis cast him a withering look.

"Or maybe not," Porthos shrugged.

They worked on until the quayside was clear. Horses were led on board easily and quickly, testimony to the better weather, and then Tréville gave the order for the men to move likewise. Aramis manoeuvred himself somewhere near the front and disappeared amongst his colleagues, leaving Porthos ostensibly alone to keep an eye on Athos who looked as if he were ready to take flight but, on glancing around, the big man noticed that Claude was hovering nearby and ready to give assistance if need be. Furthermore, Tréville watched them closely, positioned in such a place that he could successfully cut off any means of escape.

When it was time and they were the only four musketeers left on the quayside, Porthos held out the brandy bottle to Athos. "Apparently the Captain says it's for medicinal purposes only so you can't drink the lot."

Athos eyed the bottle, a hand reaching out for it just as a sheen of sweat began forming on his pale face in anticipation of boarding. The alcohol would help, would perhaps steady his nerves and then he mentally berated himself – he could do this. Hadn't he been on enough vessels of varying sizes in the last three months? He _would_ do this. He glanced across to where Tréville stood ready and waiting. The Captain dipped his head in encouragement.

Athos dropped his hand, took a shaky breath and stared directly at Porthos. "I won't be needing that," he declared and turned for the gangplank, the big musketeer following close on his heels. There was a moment's hesitation before he stepped onto the walkway that would take him from firm ground to the ship's deck but a softly whispered, 'You can do it,' from Tréville and a louder, "Come on, lad. One step at a time," from Claude had him moving forward.

Porthos paused long enough to shoot a triumphant grin in Tréville's direction and handed back the unopened brandy before joining the musketeers on board.

"Over here," they both heard Aramis yell and saw where he stood, enthusiastically waving in their direction. As they reached him, he proudly indicated the spot he had chosen. "We are as far forward as we can get. I found this old sail cloth we can sit on, kept a full water skin handy and I found this," and he gestured towards an old bucket. "Just in case …" he added fondly, taking Athos by the arm and guiding him to sit in the middle of the sailcloth, back firmly against the wooden side of the ship.

Athos took another shuddering breath as his two friends lowered themselves to the deck on each side of him.

"Now that's not so bad, is it?" Porthos asked. "We got the best seats an' we only 'ave to stand up if we should get the fancy to see where we're goin'." He slapped a hand encouragingly on Athos' thigh as the worried musketeer managed a thin, wavering smile of appreciation. At least he did not have to explain himself again.

Aramis slid an arm around his shoulder as the ship's crew began to shout in response to orders to make ready. The ship was leaving the Ȋle de Ré and its passengers were on their way to the mainland at last. High above the Citadel, the familiar blue and white cloth with its distinctive central cross flew as if in acknowledgement of their departure and was bidding a final farewell on behalf of the inhabitants of the island.

The marksman waited until they had cast off and there was the definite sensation of movement; he knew that Athos had realised it too for a nervous tremor ran through his body. "We're here with you, you know. You don't think you have to do it alone. We will look after you."

 **PARIS 1631**

D'Artagnan sat open-mouthed as the tale came to an end. "And that was it?" he breathed. "You came home to Paris?"

"Not immediately," Tréville went on. "However, the King wanted to be at court for the winter and Christmas, so it was not too long afterwards that we came back to the city for a few months, returning to La Rochelle in late spring."

The youngest musketeer had sat mesmerised as the story, nearly three hours in the telling, had unfolded. The longevity of the account could be explained by several factors. Had Tréville and Athos been allowed to relate events between them, it would have been considerably briefer and more succinct but Porthos and Aramis were not to be left out, adding the finer detail, each of them trying to outdo the other as they elaborated upon the mulishness and ineptitude of the English, their individual roles in proceedings and, not least, the specific things that Athos had done. If those interjections did not help to clarify proceedings, then d'Artagnan would interrupt with searching questions of his own and four voices would be raised in answer, or one would defer the inquiry to another who might know more.

As the alcohol flowed, Porthos, Aramis and even Tréville became more animated as they were called upon to deliver minutiae of incidents and that only gave rise to fresh memories resurfacing and many was the time when the cries of 'Do you remember when …..?' or 'That was when old …..' rang in the room. Athos joined in periodically but when he became the focal point of the anecdote, he fell silent, a dismissive shrug of the shoulders, shake of the head or a raised eyebrow his only means of deflecting unwanted praise. A roll of the eyes and a slight flush to the cheeks signalled his embarrassment when they laboured over his various short-comings.

"And how was the return journey?" d'Artagnan asked with a cheeky grin, staring fixedly at his mentor.

The four responses were simultaneous.

"Fine!" said Athos in short.

"He did not do too badly," Tréville said, ever the diplomat.

"He was as sick as a dog from the moment we raised anchor," Porthos laughed.

"He was relieved that I found the bucket," Aramis said proudly.

All eyes focused on Athos to gauge his reaction but it was Tréville who came to his rescue. "We just have to accept that we will never make a sailor of Athos but it was reasonably calm, we made good time and we ensured that he was amongst the first to disembark so it was not quite the nightmare it could have been."

"Not quite?" d'Artagnan asked, the twitch at the corner of the lips an indication that he was not convinced.

"You should know by now not to believe all that Porthos tells you," Aramis said, looking at d'Artagnan even as he clapped a consolatory hand on Athos' back. "He was only sick twice which, given the circumstances, was a huge improvement."

"Yeah, but what you don't say was each time he was doubled over that bucket for fifteen minutes at least," Porthos objected.

Athos attempted to intimidate him with a scathing look but it was lost as the other men laughed.

"Oh but you do love to exaggerate," Aramis remonstrated.

Renewed laughter rang through the room once more at Athos' expense but it was d'Artagnan who was the first to become sombre, his words imbued with a sense of awe.

"That swim was an incredibly brave thing to do."

There was a long pause as each man was reminded of the enormity of the enterprise and what could have been the alternative outcome.

"Yes it was," Aramis spoke up suddenly and all eyes turned to him.

Porthos stiffened as he feared the familiar outburst from his friend and he did not want the pleasant atmosphere and camaraderie of the evening to be sullied.

"And I am sorry that I have not said that often enough or made clear my appreciation," Aramis continued. "It is hard to calculate the number of people who are indebted to you, my friend. Yes, I know you received the King's commendation on returning to Paris ….."

"What!" d'Artagnan interrupted, never once having heard anything about one of the highest awards the King could bestow upon anyone. He looked at the men in turn un utter amazement.

"The King's commendation," Aramis repeated, "but that is small recompense for the task you undertook. You brought food and solace to all of us in the citadel, spared us the humiliation of surrender and gave an account to Louis that sent Schomberg and his reinforcements to our aid. It was a great victory for France and sent the English packing with their tails between their legs. It was another metaphorical nail in Buckingham's coffin and that failure was probably instrumental in his assassination." He reached out and cupped the back of Athos' neck with his hand. "If I have been surly and seemingly unforgiving, it is because I could not comprehend the magnitude of what you had chosen to do. All I could think of was my own selfishness and fear that we could have lost you, instead of celebrating what you had achieved. Forgive me. You are a brave and honourable man and I am richly blessed that I can call you friend and brother."

He swallowed hard against the rise of emotion he felt. Misty-eyed, he looked around at the others, all of whom appeared equally affected by his declaration.

"Gentlemen," he ordered, suddenly business-like. "Pray charge your glasses and join me in a toast."

As he stood, he applied a slight pressure to Athos' shoulder, indicating that he was to remain seated. Porthos, d'Artagnan and Tréville, having ensured that their glasses were full, rose to join the marksman.

"To Athos, our brave friend and brother!" he called and three strong voices echoed his assertion.

Athos' face reddened, a fact that could not even be partially explained by the alcohol. He still found it hard to accept any form of praise, not least from the other _Inseparables,_ but to see and hear it repeated with such strength and enthusiasm by the man he respected above all others came close to overwhelming him. His fond thoughts briefly centred upon the precious time piece Tréville had given him* and then a tide of anger washed over him, threatening to spoil his evening's pleasure when he recalled how Tréville had been rewarded of late by the King and that rat, Rochefort.

His musings were thankfully interrupted by d'Artagnan's eager request to hear again certain parts of the tale but Tréville, who had not resumed his seat, set his cup down on the table, a subtle indication that the evening's revelries were at an end, although he had to confess that he had not enjoyed himself so much for a long time – too long, if truth be told.

"I thank you, one and all," he said. "To you, Athos, for your unstinting assistance in ploughing through some of the most tedious documents I have ever since, and you gentlemen, for providing the food and the company. Thank you, d'Artagnan, for insisting that we educate you on the finer points of the siege of Ȋle de Ré. It has been a worthwhile activity in reminding us of what we might be facing here, given the repeated use of the cross symbol. Athos and I have identified certain Huguenot groups and individuals and that is where we will start our inquiries. We have a starting point but now, take pity on the old man amongst you, I need my sleep. I urge you to rest also for tomorrow, gentlemen, we start the search in earnest for our murderers."

The remnants of the meal swiftly gathered and goodnights over and done with, Tréville was left alone and the lightness the reminiscences of the evening had created immediately soured as the incipient depression that was currently his constant companion made an unwelcome return. In 1627, the musketeer regiment had been besieged, injured, endangered and taken risks, but that was their job, they took it in their stride, were comrades-in-arms and he had been their captain. Now they had no such leadership and he was bereft, totally unsure as to what the future held for him and those who had once been his men. The fact that all the musketeers continued to address him as captain was evidence that they were not prepared to abide by the King's ruling and they fondly held Tréville in high esteem.

But the times were changing and they currently faced an unknown threat that was determined to bring harm to as many of them as possible and, it seemed, their loved ones. Whoever it was appeared intent upon damaging the morale of the regiment but they obviously did not fully understand the man who was the musketeer and the sense of brotherhood that permeated all of them.

As he lay in the darkness, sleep the last thing on his mind, Tréville made a decision. The King might believe that he had let him down as Captain but he would not end his military days as a failure with the attempted destruction of the regiment his lasting legacy. He would discover who was responsible for the attacks on his men and they would be dealt with swiftly, honourably but without mercy. If they were lucky, the perpetrators just might live long enough to see the inside of a court room!

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **The asterisk refers to the pocket watch Tréville gives to Athos as a heartfelt thanks at the end of 'Renegade'. If you've read it, you know the reference; if you haven't, I will not spoil it by telling you any more about what occasioned that gift. I hope you'll just go and read it!**_


	61. Chapter 61

**_Dear all, profuse apologies for being silent (am far behind in reading and reviewing other stories too) but with the show, then being ill, trying (and failing) to get ready for Christmas and catch up with work, writing was sadly sidelined. Here, though, is the next chapter and I hope it was worth the wait to all you loyal readers. I have read and re-read this so any remaining errors are down to my carelessness. Please forgive me._**

 ** _Right, uploading this and then off to do late night Christmas shopping!_ **

CHAPTER 61

The day after regaling d'Artagnan with the momentous events on the Ȋle de Ré, Tréville and Athos spent more hours pouring over documents, cross-referencing names and studying a map of Paris as they devised a plan for the rounding up of dissident Huguenots. The names which they had been furnished with by the King had not been dissimilar to the list Tréville had already compiled from his own reports but he had not been disheartened for, in the wake of the monarch's attempt at helpfulness, there had been a partial yet distinct thawing of Louis' icy demeanour towards his demoted Captain.

In his heart, Tréville knew that the King had not totally forgiven him for it was in the man's petulant nature to harbour grudges, remembering with a frightening accuracy any slight he had received many years beforehand. However, Louis was not prepared to condone any unprovoked violence meted out to his men; after all, Athos had carefully reminded him on more than one occasion that an attack against the regiment was an attack against His Majesty.

Still, Louis wanted the matter resolved as swiftly as possible and was suitably incensed that the men of his regiment were being targeted. Tréville allowed himself a wry smile when he thought of how the King had raged at the apparent incompetence of the musketeers in recent weeks and now, all of a sudden, he was suitably sympathetic towards them, eager to help in any way he could and studiously producing a list of potential offenders based on his personal journals, convinced that he had single-handedly solved the mystery of the identification of the perpetrators.

If only it were that simple!

On the second morning, whilst it was still dark, the remaining musketeers had broken their fast and then mustered to listen as Tréville divided them into four groups of twelve, furnishing them with instructions and a list of names of those Huguenots wanted for questioning. Each group was set to apprehend a maximum of four and return with them to the garrison. Those who were not needed for the dawn raids were set with the task of preparing a series of rooms where the small groups would be held in silence and guarded as they awaited interrogation. They were also to be on hand, armed and ready should any request be sent back to the garrison for necessary reinforcements.

There was the merest suggestion of the sky lightening in the east as the men slipped out through the main gate on foot – Tréville had not wanted the sound of horses in the quiet, pre-dawn streets to alert anyone of the musketeers' approach. He had made the decision to divide the _Inseparables,_ tasking each of them to lead one of the four groups as Aramis, d'Artagnan and Porthos had been privy to some of the decision making that he and Athos had spent the best part of the previous day discussing, so it seemed to be a natural course of action. He had hoped that speed and the element of surprise would be to their benefit. With the Red Guard taking over guard duty at the palace and the musketeers keeping a low profile in light of the terrible events that had befallen them of late, it was natural for the people of Paris to assume erroneously that the focus of their attention would be inward looking.

There were, undoubtedly, those who passed the garrison and eyed the heavily guarded gateway with apprehension as they wondered when the next attack would occur and what nature it would take. The fears of the people in the vicinity of the garrison were that they would be swept up in this not-so-private war and would inevitably become innocent victims to whoever it was wreaking a terrible retribution upon the musketeers. A few speculated upon the reasons behind the attacks but they were wild guesses and had little foundation beyond the even wilder rumours that were circulating.

The atmosphere within the garrison was muted and tense. Once the set tasks had been swiftly accomplished in readiness for the arrivals, the men sat, fully armed and waiting, around the yard and Tréville did not have the heart to encourage them to exercise, spar or continue with rebuilding the stables. All had worked so hard in the aftermath of the fire for the debris had been removed, the yard and building walls scrubbed clean of ash and smoke damage and the new supplies were neatly stacked around the working area.

Tréville had sent a message via six musketeers to the palace late the previous evening clearly marked that it was for the King's eyes only for he did not trust Rochefort and suspected that the man might attempt to intercept any missive from the garrison. He did not want to believe that the monarch's latest favourite was involved in the attacks upon the musketeers but he could not be wholly sure and whilst that element of doubt remained in his mind, he was not about to take any unnecessary chances. That was why the note did not include any specific details as to the regiment's intended plans but just alerted the King to the fact that they had sufficient evidence to take action and pursue definite lines of investigation. There was the risk that, if Rochefort were involved, he might have detailed Red Guards to keep the garrison under surveillance and inform him of any movement, but that could have been done at any time.

Tréville had worried for over an hour until the six returned, having encountered no danger. They had been admitted to the King's presence without question and, more importantly, without Rochefort being in attendance. Louis had read the missive, ordered them to wait and quickly penned a supporting message in his own wiry handwriting. In effect, it gave Tréville and his men complete authority to act in any lawful way deemed necessary to apprehend those responsible for the attacks.

Now Tréville stood upon the balcony outside the office and leaned on the balustrade, doing all he could to exude an air of nonchalance as he gazed at the remnants of the regiment and sensed their underlying unease. All he wanted to do was scream to the sky that he wanted his men back within the safety of the garrison walls, to be informed that they had all accomplished their missions and that there had been no bloodshed of any description. He sighed as he wondered what was keeping them and then he took a more realistic stance – they had not been gone that long.

"You 'aven't eaten yet!" a voice called up to him.

"No, I'm fine," he attempted a reassuring smile as he gazed down upon the scowling features of the company's cook.

"S'pose I'd better bring you something up then," Serge complained as prepared to go back into his kitchen.

"No," Tréville repeated. "I don't need -"

"It's no trouble," the voice grumbled as its owner disappeared beneath the balcony. "Not as if I'm doin' anythin' really. Just got to start getting' dinner ready for everyone and their families. I'm not sayin' as how my work load has increased an' all but I won't 'ave anyone else sayin' I'm not doin' my part an' makin' sure you eat. Not exactly eatin' enough to keep a sparrow alive these days."

The disembodied words clearly drifted up to Tréville who suppressed a chortle as the old soldier continued to express his opinion from the safe haven beneath the balustrade; he was determined to have the last word, no matter what, and Tréville would not begrudge him that simple pleasure. Serge had his own strategies for dealing with his worries and stress, and loudly bemoaning the state of his existence was just one way in which he found release.

Distraught upon hearing that the Captain had been relieved of his command by the King, he had initially erupted with a stream of colourful language and had then taken it upon himself to personally ensure that Tréville had all that he needed as a small compensation for the ignominy that he had endured. Serge had seen all too well the falling off of the former officer's appetite and he had tried his best to produce special little delicacies with which to tempt him until Tréville had begged him to stop – an order deliberately falling on deaf ears – as he deemed it unfair on the rest of the men to be treated differently.

So they had compromised. Tréville promised the cantankerous old cook that he would partake of the general fare to the best of his ability if Serge would stop creating anything different and it worked – up to a point. However, Serge was monitoring very carefully what was eaten and there was a battle of wills if he considered that Tréville had left an unsatisfactory amount on his plate. Serge used his age, experience, reputation and history of knowing the younger man since his days as a raw recruit in another regiment as his weapons of choice, whereas Tréville no longer felt that he could pull rank, even if the old cook still considered him to be the Captain and continued to address him as such. The result was that Serge always seemed to come out as the satisfied winner, having got his way on more than one occasion of late.

Tréville waited until the veteran had trudged up the stairs carrying a plate of bread, cheese and cold meat. He took it and suppressed a sigh when he saw that the pewter platter was piled high with enough food to keep him going for the whole day.

"I could have saved you the trouble and come down," he said.

Serge harrumphed noisily. "It was no trouble. 'Sides, if I'd left it to you, you'd not've come down those stairs for a while, if at all, 'cause you'd 'ave managed to get sidetracked somehow. Now get some o' that down you before the men come back with your prisoners." He turned to go.

"They're not prisoners, Serge," Tréville corrected him. "They are Huguenots that we hope are going to help us with our inquiries."

The old man made another indecipherable noise that suggested he was not convinced. ""I'm not goin' to bandy over words," he said as he walked away, "and mind you eat that up. I'm expectin' to see an empty plate when I come back for it later."

He was still grumbling as he made his way down the stairs, incomplete sentences drifting up to Tréville's hearing about "not bein' paid enough to be a nursemaid" and something about "the young 'un an' him being like two peas in the same pod" and that it was a good idea that Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan didn't mess around "playin' with honest to goodness food" that he – Serge – had prepared in his own time with the talents God gave him and this was how he was thanked!

Feeling suitably chastised, Tréville put a chunk of cheese on a piece of bread and took a bite; it was good and he had not realised that he was so hungry but it was not to be assuaged as a hammering sounded on the gates that were, at present, kept permanently closed. Setting the plate on the ground beside him, he straightened, his attention focused on the musketeers filing into the yard and the four men they escorted. One had apparently been less than co-operative if the manner in which Porthos had him by the arm was anything to go by. Obviously held in a vice-like grip, the man almost ran alongside the big musketeer in order to keep up and maintain his footing and his contorted expression indicated that he was not particularly comfortable but he had the sense to remain quiet, whereas another was bemoaning his treatment vociferously.

Tréville moved swiftly down the stairs and stopped before the complainant. Although not notably short, Tréville did lack the inches of his _Inseparables_ and he fully understood how menacing Porthos could seem; his physical build and daunting scowl had often been used to good effect. Now, however, Tréville used his own height to good advantage, standing close in an intimidating fashion and looming over the man who was sandwiched between the ex-Captain and the big musketeer.

"You wish to say something?" he asked, his voice low and menacing as his eyes narrowed.

"Yes," the newcomer complained, trying to draw himself up to his full height between the two soldiers and failing miserably to make any significant impression. "If you're in charge here, I want to know why your men burst into my home and dragged me from my bed without so much as a by-your-leave."

Tréville was actually able to look over the man's head at Porthos and frowned. "Didn't you knock on the door first?"

"Of course, but 'e took a long time in answerin' the door an' that set me to wonderin' what 'e was doin'," Porthos answered with a perfectly straight face.

"And was he doing anything inadvisable?"

"Yes. 'E was climbin' out a back window just as I opened 'is front door for 'im."

Tréville looked back at the small man who, if anything, had managed to shrink even further. "Why were you leaving your premises in such an unorthodox manner?"

"I was frightened," the man admitted, cowering before them.

"Why?" Tréville demanded.

"He was a musketeer." The voice was little more than a squeak now.

"How did you know if you were upstairs and Porthos here was merely knocking on the front door?" Tréville persisted.

"I …. I … looked out of the window first. I'm not used to getting callers at that time of the morning."

All the while the man was whining, Tréville wracked his brains for the names of the four Huguenots that Porthos' group had been sent to collect. Whilst he could clearly recall that information, he had no way of knowing which of them this man was. There were very few on the overall list that he had seen in person and that had been at La Rochelle after Buckingham's ill-fated assault upon Ré.

"That still does not explain why you ran," Tréville hissed. "Musketeers have the authority of the King; they are his regiment. Why should you be fearful of their arrival at your house if you have nothing to hide?"

"It's common knowledge that the musketeers have been under attack and it's natural they'd be wanting to find those responsible. When I saw the group outside my house, I thought they had come for me in error," the man was bleating now, his fear escalating as he looked into the ice blue eyes of the former Captain.

"If they had come for you in error, you should have remained to explain that error and all this nasty confusion could so easily have been avoided," Tréville's voice had become oily, placatory and he managed a reassuring smile as he placed a hand on the shaking man's shoulder. "All we want is for some of the good folk of Paris to help us with our inquiries into the unprovoked attacks that have been levelled against the regiment."

The man gave a watery smile in return. "Is that all?"

"Yes, so I am sure you now understand how suspicious it looked to Porthos here when you decided not to open the door to him but to leave by the back way instead?"

"Yes, yes, I see," came the overly hasty reply. "But I still don't know why you came to my house and not that of my neighbours. I am afraid I know nothing. Of course I would help you if I could."

"Oh you still may," Tréville said, his smile gone in an instant as his hand tightened its grip on the man's shoulder, causing his legs to buckle at the sudden pain. "I have plenty of questions that you will be able to answer starting with your dealings with the men that have been brought here with you, those who have yet to arrive and the names of who else you speak to when you gather twice weekly at the Huguenot cell on the Rue de Tournon."

"What?" The man's face became a picture of abject horror. "But I …."

"Say nothing, Carvier!" ordered one of the other three who had been brought in at the same time.

"Exactly why this lot need to be kept separately," Tréville ordered, signalling the musketeers who had remained at the garrison to take care of their new charges.

"Are we the first back?" Porthos asked, casting his eyes around the yard as the men were led away.

"For now," Tréville concurred. "The others should be here soon. The round up was co-ordinated so that all of your 'visits' were at the same time to avoid any alarms being raised."

"Do you foresee any difficulties?"

Tréville sighed as he glanced at the big musketeer. "Athos and I went over the plans several times looking for loopholes before we gave the rest of you your instructions so I hope not. The ones most likely to cause any problems are the two recently released from the Chatelet, which is why Athos and his group have only them to collect. Thank goodness Louis heeded our request and has delayed the release of any more Huguenots back onto the Paris streets."

Aramis arrived next with the four his patrol had collected and, it seems, they encountered no trouble at all; the quartet had come meekly and quietly enough.

Athos was next to return with his pair who were bound at the wrists, gagged and sporting a variety of cuts and emerging bruises.

"Did you 'ave a spot o' bother?" Porthos inquired, one eyebrow raised.

"Nothing to worry about," Athos replied, ducking away from Aramis who was trying to inspect the bruise on his cheekbone. "We soon convinced them that it was in their best interests to co-operate with us."

D'Artagnan was the last back with the four men he had gathered. The _Inseparables_ and Treville looked on as the final group were led away to different rooms where they were to be held until their time for questioning came.

"Where do you want to start?" Athos asked quietly as he moved to stand beside Tréville.

"We'll begin with the little runt Porthos brought in first. He had a lot to say for himself right from the start. It would be easy to apply a little pressure there," Tréville answered.

"You mean you are going to let Porthos loose on him?" Aramis wanted to know.

Porthos' cheeks puffed in disappointment as he exhaled. "I 'ad to suffer 'im goin' on an' on all the way back 'ere. Didn't seem to know when to shut up."

"I suppose, given that he is a Protestant, you interrupting his beauty sleep was grounds for him protesting," Aramis quipped. Porthos merely groaned and shook his head, Athos rolled his eyes and Tréville struggled to suppress the smile that twitched at the corners of his mouth.

"I thought I would try a new tack," the older man announced, "and let Athos have free rein."

"You mean the totally indifferent 'why are we here' eye-roll to start with, quickly followed by the gentlemanly approach, finishing with a deadly 'tell me what I want to know before you live to regret it' conclusion?" Aramis hazarded.

"That's about it," Tréville agreed and looked at Athos to gauge his reaction but the swordsman was intently watching d'Artagnan who had not joined in the exchange over the past few minutes.

"Any problems?" Athos asked, breaking into the younger musketeer's reverie.

"No," d'Artagnan began, "but I had the distinct feeling that we were being followed all the way back to the garrison?"

"Did you see anyone?" Tréville demanded.

"No-one. Each time I turned and looked about me, there was nobody there. I had the others being vigilant about rooftops and upper storeys given that attack on Athos and Porthos a few days ago but none of us saw anything," d'Artagnan explained, a note of apology creeping into his voice. "I suppose it was my imagination because of all we have been through recently."

"I wouldn't call it that," Athos said softly. "I think it is more to do with a soldier's intuition."

Even as he spoke the words, outside the garrison a cloaked figure flattened itself against the wall of a corner building some way down from the shut gates and took full advantage of the shadows that aided concealment.

Eyes blazed in fury at the obviously increased security and there was no telling how long it would be before the Huguenots who had been taken inside would emerge again. Even when that happened, they might not be walking free but tranferred to the Bastille or the Chatelet. Would the musketeers resort to torture to gain vital information in light of what had been happening to their own? How long would their sense of honour endure in the face of such attacks and loss? Were their methods as ruthless as those of the late Cardinal Richelieu?

Fourteen men had been taken from their homes. Two were religious leaders within the Huguenot community, a veritable coup for the musketeers if they realised who they held and thought that they could silence the preachers. Another two, strong dissidents who had been very active before and during the siege of La Rochelle, were the newly released prisoners from the Chatelet; they would not talk for they had said little since 1628. They understood what loyalty and brotherhood truly meant. A further three, who had been on Ré, were his close confederates, those who had acted with him in the attacks. They would not speak, would not reveal their part in the deaths of musketeers but he thought on the remaining seven and went cold with anger. Idealistic, they talked of supporting renewed insurrection, of wanting freedom from suppression for those of similar beliefs but they were lily-livered, weak men who would not withstand intense questioning and he wondered just how much some of them knew; he feared it was too much.

He would have to think very carefully if there were any others who would help him in his fight against the musketeers, otherwise the mantle of retribution was his alone. Events were escalating and he had to think fast if he were to maintain some control over matters for there was more planned mayhem yet before the final act of the unfolding drama.


	62. Chapter 62

_**Dear all,**_

 _ **Just wanted to wish you all a very Happy New Year and hoping that you had a wonderful Christmas. Goodness, I don't know where the days have gone; it is such a busy time of year - especially if you are a musketeer and on the hunt for a murderer! I realise that I posted the first chapter of this story a year ago tonight; I had not expected to take so long in finishing it and thank you all for your patience and 'stickability'. Be assured, we are approaching the end -just a few chapters to go but in this one, their investigation moves on apace.** _

CHAPTER 62

I)

Porthos knew the moment that Athos' patience had expired whilst questioning Carvier. He had already rapidly passed from apparent indifference through the gentlemanly approach and had reached Aramis' accurate description of 'tell me what I want to know before you live to regret it' stage.

Even from where he stood lounging against the door frame, Porthos could see the subtle shift in the body language of his friend and gently caught the inside of his cheek between his teeth to refrain from smiling as he prepared to enjoy the next stage of the interrogation. There was the characteristic narrowing of the green eyes and the squaring of the shoulders as Athos pushed himself to his feet and, seemingly nonchalantly, circumnavigated the table at which Carvier nervously sat.

The Huguenot's breath hitched but he sat still as the musketeer passed behind him. He was not prepared, though, for the soldier to stop, lean over his right shoulder, slam the flat of hand down noisily on the table top and hiss a threat into his ear.

"Enough of your games, _Monsieur_. Good men and an innocent woman and her children have been murdered of late. Stop wasting my time and tell me what you know of the attacks."

"But I don't know anything," Carvier tried one last time, wearied by the constant barrage of questions and wondering how long he could withhold any of the information the soldiers sought. His mind raced as he struggled to determine whether or not that knowledge was worth the keeping.

Porthos watched him squirm; the man was a bad liar and had already proven that he was more than capable of bending the truth if it suited him when he complained to Tréville that he had been dragged from his bed when, moments later, Porthos had explained that he had actually apprehended the man climbing out of a ground floor window. For all that Athos displayed a world-weary patience or stoicism for much of the time, he had a formidable temper when roused and Porthos felt a fleeting pity for the little civilian who thought he could hold back from giving any information, obviously underestimating the Musketeer and his mood, a fundamental mistake that Athos no doubt intended.

Athos straightened and made as if to turn away but, at the last moment, grabbed Carvier by the neck and forced his head down, stopping just before the man's forehead made contact with the marked wooden surface.

Surprised and pained by the abrupt move and the strong, long fingers biting into his neck, Carvier yelped, his body beginning to shake with fear.

"I have been patient, Sir, but I will endure your perverseness no more. We know the assaults upon the King's men have been launched by some person or persons associated with the siege of the Île de Ré four years ago, the symbol left on or near all the bodies is the coat of arms of Saint Martin and flies high upon its pennant." Athos' words were delivered in a clipped and menacing tone.

"And you think it is done by Huguenots?" Carvier tried to move his head sideways to look up at the musketeer who held him fast.

"Convince me otherwise," Athos grated from between his teeth, "and do it quickly, or else I shall hand over the questioning to my friend and colleague here, and I can assure you that his methods of getting information from unco-operative people like you is significantly different from my own. For a start, his way is infinitely more painful," and Athos released the man so that he could see Porthos step forward.

The big musketeer scowled threateningly as he interlaced and flexed his fingers, the ominous cracking sound that resulted more than suggesting that he meant business.

A weak man, terrified and a coward to the last, Carvier withered before the two musketeers. "No, no, please," he begged. "I will tell you what I know although it is not much."

Athos returned to his chair and left Porthos to loom menacingly over the quaking man. "Speak," he ordered, gesturing to the man to continue.

Carvier licked at his lips. "A little water first," he pleaded.

The dip of the head was barely perceptible as Athos signalled to Porthos to address the man's needs. He sat back, his gaze inscrutable as he steepled his fingertips and waited until the man had slaked his thirst; there was the traitorous tremble of the hand as Carvier set the cup back down on the table.

"Well?" he prompted eventually.

There was no more stalling for the man who had had such a rude awakening a few hours beforehand. "I am not involved in the attacks, I swear, but there is talk within the community that there are those who were at La Rochelle and Ré who seek revenge for the hardship visited upon the Huguenots at the time."

"There has been periodic unrest amongst the Huguenots for years so why now and why target the Musketeer regiment?" Athos asked.

"There are new arrivals in Paris all the time, escaping hardship and persecution in the towns and the villages to the southwest who seek out shelter and support from the small religious groups here in the city. Some remain but a short time before they move on to the coast and the ports whilst others settle and try to make a new home for themselves here in the city, maintaining a low profile, not wanting to draw attention to themselves as they worship in private and keep the laws of France. There are those, however, whose memories are long and who cannot bring themselves to exercise forgiveness for the past and they are not yet ready to give up the fight for the religious tolerance and freedom that was promised by the present King's father," Carvier began.

Athos sighed, his exasperation evident for he already knew much of what the man had told him and because he dared to imply criticism of Louis. No matter what the musketeer sometimes thought of his monarch's decision-making and pronouncements, he was not about to let another man disparage the King and his policies.

"His Majesty cannot be held solely to blame for what has happened over the years. His mother made decisions about the Huguenots before the King was of age. What would you have had him do when rebellion broke out? Just sit there and let you and your kind do exactly what you will?"

"What do you know of 'my kind'?" Carvier spat angrily.

"You would be surprised," Athos responded surprisingly calmly. "I was at Ré during the siege and La Rochelle for some time afterwards."

"And you wonder why there are those of the group who despise the Musketeers?" Carvier persisted.

"We did not move against the Huguenots on Ré and they were not ill-treated," Athos objected. "Our fight was against the English Duke of Buckingham who had invaded the island."

"No doubt you were looking out for your Catholic brothers and sisters and preventing Buckingham from providing aid to the suffering people of La Rochelle."

"I am not prepared to embark upon a religious and political debate with you for we will never agree, given the difference in our viewpoints. Were you even there in either place?"

"Well, no," Carvier admitted, "but I have met plenty who were and have heard their tales of hardship and suffering; of the deaths within La Rochelle during the siege."

"And we suffered privations of our own when we were besieged on Ré by Buckingham. Men, women and children were starving and sickness was rife," Athos explained curtly.

"Forgive me if I am unmoved by your experience," Carvier said bravely.

"I do not say it to solicit your sympathy," Athos responded coldly. "I merely highlight the suffering that was experienced by those on both sides but readily admit that ours was not of the duration of La Rochelle. We were there as soldiers following orders nor were we the only ones in either place so I ask again, why is the Musketeer regiment singled out for such treatment and by whom? Whilst you may not be privy to specific details, there must have been talk, rumour about what has befallen the Musketeers recently. I am not expecting someone to be openly gloating about the misery that has been deliberately inflicted upon us but there must be suspicion, some inexplicable behaviour or moods amongst those known to you."

All the while, Athos watched the man carefully, studying every little nuance of expression and mannerism and drew the conclusion that the man was still not revealing all that he knew. Time was against them and he knew his tactics would have to change.

His hand shot out across the table, grabbed Carvier's right wrist and forced the open hand palm-down onto the surface.

"Spread your fingers," he ordered.

"What?" Carvier whispered, his eyes watering at the tight grip around his wrist. The Musketeer might look slight but he was strong and the civilian could not pull himself free.

"I said, spread your fingers," Athos repeated, enunciating every word slowly and clearly before he nodded in Porthos' direction.

"What are you going to do?" Carvier asked in alarm.

"I'll leave it to Porthos to decide. I would not be in your place," Athos added cryptically, his expression cold, "for what he chooses to do will depend upon how bored he has become in listening to you evading the issue."

As if to reinforce the warning, Porthos moved back into Carvier's sightline and stood removing the dirt from beneath his fingernails with the point of his main gauche.

"I could either just tease 'im for a bit or go straight to cuttin' off one of his fingers," Porthos offered.

"What? You wouldn't!" Carvier objected, his eyes widening in horror. He turned back to Athos. "You wouldn't let him. You can't. You're musketeers."

Athos leaped to his feet, his chair falling over and crashing to the floor in the process. Both hands on the table to support his weight as he leaned forwards, his face was dark with undisguised anger.

"So now you imply that, as we are Musketeers, we would not resort to foul or dishonourable means to elicit that which we would know, yet minutes ago we were the scum of His Majesty's military for what you believe we did singlehandedly at Ré and La Rochelle, based on the stories you have heard from others as you have never set foot in either place."

"No, but … that's not what I said. You twist my words," Carvier whined.

"Easily done, isn't it?" Porthos pointed out, giving a bizarre grin as he lunged and drove the main gauche point first into table top directly between Carvier's index and middle finger.

The man screeched in terror.

"Now my friend 'ere has been a lot more patient than me so I suggest you start talking an' tellin' 'im what 'e wants to know." The smile faded abruptly to be replaced by a malevolent glare. "I'm done with the teasin'. Talk now or else I'll be makin' you a present of your fingers, one by one."

And with that final threat ringing in his ears, Carvier could not talk fast enough.

II)

The _Invincibles_ reconvened with Tréville later in his office to report on what they had discovered from questioning the men picked up in the early morning, although it had been Tréville's tactic that none would be speaking to the men they had specifically collected. Hours had passed, tempers were frayed from their mixed success and they needed to piece together what they had discovered, ascertain that which was relevant and decide upon who was to be released and who was to be detained for further questioning.

Aramis had had the responsibility in the first instance of dealing with the two Huguenot religious leaders. He was convinced that one of them, Morel, knew nothing and should be allowed to leave but that the other, Raymond Landry, would be worth speaking to again as he seemed to know more about the identity of those behind the attacks.

"I am sure of it," Aramis announced. "He will not divulge any names but keeps repeating that there have been many newcomers to Paris within the last year, hinting that those we seek are amongst their number, rather than being one of those who has always been in the city or here for a longer period."

"We should begin with taking a closer look at any new people who have attached themselves to his particular cell of worshippers then," Tréville declared before divulging what had transpired when he took on the responsibility of questioning the former prisoners from the Chatelet.

"Lefevre and Depaul," Tréville supplied their names. "They obviously were not direct participants as they were still incarcerated when the attacks began."

Neither had been prepared to be co-operative in any way but their attitudes suggested that they knew who was behind the Musketeer deaths. Tréville suspected that, subsequently, they had given some assistance to those involved and had already made up his mind that if he were to discover that they were caught up in events, no matter how slightly, it would be a very long time before they set foot outside the Chatelet again; he had already concluded that he would see them swiftly returned to the Chatelet, especially as they persisted in withholding information.

After that, their sharing of news was swift. After dealing with the religious leaders, Aramis had moved on to see one of the men brought in by Porthos. The shoemaker called Brun, a very nervous man, said that he thought the Musketeers might have at least one of the killers in their custody already and identified the person as being Victor Desmarais but when Aramis consequently turned his attention to him, the sullen man stayed absolutely silent and refused to be drawn on anything.

Having elicited as much detail as possible from Carvier, Porthos and Athos had tried to repeat their tactics on a second man but apart from learning his name, Pelletier, he also refused to talk, although both musketeers were convinced from his demeanour that he knew more than he was letting on. However, Tréville had given strict instructions that no force was to be used – yet.

D'Artagnan revealed that he, too, had had a totally unfruitful meeting with a further Huguenot, Neville, who had, as the young soldier described it, clammed up like a shell.

Further discussion had them all in agreement that Benoit, Gravois, Denis and Pascal either knew nothing at all, only that which the musketeers had learned from someone else or were too frightened to say anything worthy of note, as was the case. The last of the fourteen, Yves Leroy, had inadvertently said something interesting to d'Artagnan in that he had frequently seen the three men who were brought in with him in each other's company and that they kept very much to themselves with a fourth.

None of the musketeers dared look at each other but sat straighter, hoping that they were on the verge of their much-needed breakthrough in case of the attacks on the garrison.

"And those three were?" Tréville asked.

Aramis had been responsible for bringing in Leroy and his eyes widened at the impact of d'Artagnan's announcement. "Desmarais, Neville and Pelletier," he breathed. "How did the trio come to be on my list in the first place?" He glanced between Tréville and Athos who had drawn up the names of those to be questioned. "I thought it unusual that three unrelated men were to be found at the same address."

"They were on Ré and amongst those rounded up by us in Saint Martin after the English had left," Tréville explained. "They were still being held by Toiras at the Citadel when we departed for the mainland. The siege of La Rochelle was too tight for them to infiltrate the city but it was believed that they were involved in minor skirmishes outside with Richelieu's forces, anything to be a problem. Unfortunately, they avoided capture and, when the siege was over, they disappeared. Richelieu had his spies out watching the ports and was convinced that they had never left France but they must have gone underground somewhere. Louis had added their names to the list he gave me. Rochefort has continued the Cardinal's watch of Huguenot cells within the city …"

"Pity he's not been so careful," Porthos interrupted, "unless he didn't mind them getting up to their tricks whilst we musketeers were the victims."

Tréville frowned. "As much as I do not like the man, in this instance I would like to give him the benefit of the doubt. I do not think he realised the significance of what he had in his possession. He handed over a list of names of people in Huguenot cells and any newcomers to Paris garnered from his web of informants. If these men were apparently law-abiding, he would have no reason to suspect them of impending treacherous behaviour and he has got too much on his mind at present worming his way into Louis' favour and causing trouble for us than worrying about ne'er-do-wells from four years ago."

"So they have been in Paris for six months and we did not know," d'Artagnan summarised.

"And they are maintaining their silence because they are protecting their fourth who is still at large," Aramis surmised.

"Are we so sure that we do not have the fourth?" d'Artagnan wanted to know.

"Yes, but we do have his name," Athos said suddenly, his face serious.

"You have the name of the fourth?" Tréville asked incredulously.

"That's right," Porthos interjected. "We frightened Carvier a little and he started singing like a canary."

"He named Philippe Fournier who was also new to Paris within the last six months. He came with three others and the four of them are always together, although Carvier was unable to name the other three," Athos took up the tale.

"Why did he only get the one name then?" d'Artagnan was puzzled.

"Fournier frightened him although he had never done or said anything directly."

"Did he give any reason for feeling that way?" Tréville wondered.

"Fournier's very demeanour was intimidating and Carvier had heard stories about the man's surliness and aggression, although he had never had occasion to witness it himself. He just wanted to know about the man so that he could give him as wide a berth as possible," Athos finished.

"His is not a name from either Ré or La Rochelle," Tréville asserted.

"It is certainly not one that I recognise from all the documents we have scoured of late, although it must have been on those furnished by Rochefort," Athos agreed.

"So where is he living then?" Aramis voiced the question that was on all their minds. "He was not sleeping in the house when we rounded up the other three."

"Out and about thinking up other ways to be malicious perhaps," Athos suggested. "Was there evidence that another person was resident there?"

Aramis looked sheepish. "I confess I did not look around for I was concentrating on keeping the three named men under control; we may have taken them by surprise but they did try to put up a fight."

"Then someone needs to go back there to check," Tréville decided.

"'E'd be long gone," Porthos pointed out. "He could've been watchin' the place or else someone might've warned 'im about the raid."

"But he may have left something there that would incriminate him, that might give us a lead," Tréville continued. "We will look closely at the cell to which he and his friends have attached themselves, consider surveillance of necessary and launch a full-scale search." He turned to Athos. "I take it you got a description of Fournier from Carvier?"

Athos rolled his eyes, "Yes but it could fit a significant number of Paris inhabitants. There was nothing outstanding in his appearance apparently. Carvier was sufficiently vague about his height, build, colouring, face shape or anything else for that matter that sets him out as being unremarkable."

Tréville sighed. "Then we turn our attention to his three friends we have here. D'Artagnan, I want you to take your original group back to the house where Aramis picked them up and search it thoroughly. Be careful. If Fournier is in the area or back at the property, he will be very dangerous. Do not take any risks."

"Captain," d'Artagnan acknowledged and was gone.

"Do you think there is anything more to be gained from Carvier?" Tréville asked Porthos and Athos.

The swordsman shook his head. "Once he began to talk, we followed up on what he said very thoroughly but it was soon apparent that he had nothing more of value to us."

Tréville nodded. "Then let him go with the others, including Landry; there is no need for them to remain. We know where to find them should we wish to speak with them again. They do not sound the sort to go into hiding. However, I will have Lefevre and Depaul returned to the Chatelet for now and then we will give Demarais, Neville and Pelletier our undivided attention and this time," Tréville paused, his features hardening, "we will not be so solicitous in our questioning."

III)

Less than an hour later, the gates to the garrison were partially opened, enough to allow a group of thankful men to emerge into the street and hurry away.

In an upper room across from the garrison, Philippe Fournier watched their departure, counting their number and identifying them before they disappeared out of sight. Properties in the immediate vicinity of the musketeers' home had been thoroughly searched in the immediate aftermath of the killing of the guards on duty at the gates on the night the fire was set. Two that were empty had been boarded up and where rooms were let, the landlords were instructed to inform the musketeers when they had anyone new paying for shelter.

Fournier had watched and waited, breaking in through the back of one building that was empty, replacing the board to try to conceal his unauthorised entry, and now he had settled himself at an upper storey window that gave him the perfect vantage place from which to observe the comings and goings at the garrison. The gates closed after the released men and he sat patiently, expecting them to re-open for the remaining men, three of whom were his confederates.

It opened once but that was for a dozen mounted musketeers led by the young, dark-haired one that he recognised as having been on escort duty with the supply wagon. He allowed himself a bitter smile as he recalled delivering the blow that knocked the boy unconscious but it was only then, as he stood over the crumpled form that he had realised the musketeer was too young to have been at Ré. Perhaps it was a moment of weakness or just a desire to deliver a deliberate message to the more experienced soldiers as he scratched the symbol into the boy's doublet but he had felt it the right thing to do in sparing the boy's life. There were too many other musketeers that he wanted to destroy first.

When no-else appeared after another hour, he slammed his fist into the wall, ignoring the pain that exploded up his arm. Sucking the blood from his knuckles, he conceded that his colleagues would not be released. Confident that they would not be the ones to talk, he suspected that there were those in the number who had exited the garrison who had bought their freedom with information.

Immediately, he began to formulate a plan, one which might be enough to distract the musketeers and draw them out from the increased security they had built around themselves.


	63. Chapter 63

_**Happy New Year! Despite several reads yesterday, I found three errors when I had another look this morning. Typical! Have read this chapter through more than once so sorry if anything has slipped through! No, I did not imbibe too much as the clock struck midnight!**_

 _ **A shorter chapter today which is quite deliberate, I assure you. I wanted a new year surprise for you so that I was not keeping you waiting and also you know me and my cliffhangers! I just HAD to stop at a pre-determined point - you'll understand when you get to the end and I hope you'll forgive me for stopping where I did. I can predict that you won't be so forgiving about the cliffhanger at the end of chapter 64!**_

 _ **Thank you so much to all of you who have been leaving your comments and to those of you who continue to 'follow' and 'favourite'.**_

CHAPTER 63

I

Even as he was formulating his plan, Philippe Fourmier knew that he had to go back to the lodging that he had shared with the three men still held at the garrison; he had to remove all trace of his presence there. Moving quickly and quietly down the stairs for fear of alerting those in the neighbouring property with the sound of his boots on the bare boards, he reached the ground floor, headed to the back window, pushed against the board and sighed with relief as it moved again with little noise.

Clambering through the broken window, he paused long enough to slide the board back into place and, glancing swiftly around to ensure that no-one had seen his sudden appearance, he set off in the direction of his previous abode.

What he was unprepared for, as he strode around a corner, was the sight of a dozen horses and some five musketeers outside the two-storeyed house that had been his home for six months. His breath hitched in his throat and he flattened himself back against the wall, peering cautiously around the stonework to watch the soldiers who were nervously scrutinising everyone who was abroad in the narrow street.

Retreating and standing upright as he drew breath, his head back against the wall, he had to accept that he would not be able to salvage the last of his frugal possessions, all of which were easily replaceable except for one item, something he had kept for several years, and yet he had to ask himself why he had bothered to do so for it could be his undoing if it were to be discovered where he had hidden it beneath a floorboard in the corner of the room where he slept. Chastising himself for misplaced sentimentality, he straightened and resolved to fulfil the next part of his plan.

There was nothing to be gained by lingering there a moment longer; he merely risked being apprehended and there was still much to be done and so he gave a mental farewell to the past and resolved to move on, literally if not quite metaphorically. Those who had talked, whom he presumed had ensured that his colleagues would be detained, would have to pay for their indiscretions.

His mind ran through their names. It was still daylight; it would be unwise to make a concerted move against them until after dark but he could certainly visit the areas where they lived and finalise his arrangements. His hand reached to the weapon concealed in the waistband of his breeches at his back and beneath his long cloak; its presence was oddly reassuring and reminded him of days in the past, of the hardship and suffering of Ré.

II

At the garrison, Tréville was frustrated. He had spent a further three hours interrogating – for there was no polite euphemism for his method of questioning now – the men identified as keeping company with each other. They would not even admit that and were certainly not willing to give up the fourth member of their group, even though Tréville deliberately gave Fournier's name as evidence. By doing so, he hoped to imply that he knew more than he did and anticipated them divulging additional information more by accident than design, but he was not to be so fortunate. Although two of them were consummate liars, Pelletier betrayed himself by facial reaction, even though he steadfastly refused to answer any question he was asked.

"Keep up the pressure," he ordered as Athos, Aramis and Porthos joined him in the office for a brief break from their questioning. They would have to be prepared to wear down the three men they had now come to regard as their prisoners. "Take turns with them, allow them no rest. They must tell us where Fournier is; we have to find him before he does anything else."

"You are sure that he will continue a one-man crusade when he has had the help and support of three others for so long?" Aramis asked.

Tréville ran a hand through his thinning hair; he felt that he had aged terribly since the first musketeer was murdered. No, he corrected himself, it had begun before that when he had been removed from his position as captain of the King's regiment, but these attacks had only exacerbated the situation. He would not – could not - rest until things had been resolved and he had certainly given the matter much thought. In fact, events had never been far from his mind since the moment Athos had eventually identified the origins of the symbol at every murder scene, and especially since he had read and re-read documents whilst waiting as his men went off to gather the Huguenots earlier that day.

"Call it …" he hesitated, hoping that the three men with him would understand for there was no logic to his deliberation, "intuition; instinct if you like. Yes, I do wholeheartedly believe that Fournier will continue trying to kill musketeers. I do not think that he has finished his grand design, whatever that is and why. I believe we continue to be in great danger and we cannot afford to relax our current security measures."

"Let me revisit the documents and see if I can learn anything of this Fournier," Athos offered. "We may have missed something when we looked before. Porthos and Aramis are more than capable of applying a little pressure to Pelletier for I think he, rather the others, will be the first to weaken."

"An' there was me thinkin' you an' I had our questionin' techniques down to a fine art," Porthos quipped.

The corners of Athos' mouth twitched. "I am sure you can train Aramis in what is most effective."

Aramis feigned shock. "Excuse me but I am more than capable of interviewing suspects."

"Gentlemen," Tréville warned, not in the mood for their banter even though he was fully aware that they used the ploy on occasions to alleviate any tension they might be experiencing. It was certainly not helping his own excessive levels of stress and anxiety.

Before any of them could move or say anything else, shouts from below the sound of horses' hooves heralded the return of d'Artagnan and his group. Tréville instinctively rose to his feet and all four men looked towards the door in readiness for they could hear booted feet running up the wooden staircase and along the veranda towards them. A sharp rap of knuckles on the door followed but Tréville never had the chance to bid the person enter for it was flung open and d'Artagnan strode in, obviously highly distracted.

"What is it? What's happened? Are you all unhurt?" Athos demanded, stepping towards the young musketeer who waved a hand in his direction to reassure him.

"We have all come back safely; no-one is harmed."

"Did you find anything?" Aramis asked.

"Plenty," d'Artagnan responded and inclined his head before adding, "perhaps."

"Sounds a little mysterious," Porthos frowned.

Tréville gestured impatiently for d'Artagnan to continue.

"We went through the whole building and searched the belongings of the three we have here; they have few clothes, no papers and a couple of religious tracts between them but nothing that could be described as really personal in nature," d'Artagnan reported.

"Was there any suggestion that a fourth person was staying there? Fournier?" Tréville insisted.

D'Artagnan hesitated and looked at each of the other men in turn, noting that they awaited his answer with bated breath.

"Yes, there was definitely a fourth person; there was evidence of four beds that were used but there was nothing in any of the rooms with a name that might confirm who the occupants were. We emptied cupboards, not that much was being kept in many of them, drawers, pulled down some wood panelling and even checked the ground at the back of the building to see if there was any evidence of disturbed soil to indicate that something had been buried."

"Very thorough," Porthos said. There was no sarcasm in his voice, just a respectful affirmation that d'Artagnan and the other men had done a good job.

"That's it then," Athos announced, crossing his arms. "We have to think again."

"Maybe not," d'Artagnan began hesitantly. "We even took up some of the floorboards in a few of the rooms as some of them were suspiciously loose."

Tréville straightened, anticipating that they were on the verge of hearing something crucial. "And?"

"In the corner of one of the rooms used for sleeping, hidden under the boards, we found this," and d'Artagnan slowly slid a hand inside his doublet and retrieved a package, the outer wrapping made of cloth. Warily, he stepped forward and laid it on the desk in front of his former captain, unsure as to how its contents would be received.

Perplexed and guessing that he was not going to like what he saw, Tréville took a deep breath and flicked back the outer wrapping to reveal its contents.

Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw and he gasped, his legs giving way beneath him so that he dropped heavily into his chair. Heart racing, he grabbed at the desk edge with both hands and held on, his knuckles turning white as he struggled to control his rapid breathing.

"Leave me," he whispered as he continued to stare in disbelief at the object lying in front of him.

"Captain ….?" D'Artagnan had suspected from the moment he made his discovery that what he was bringing was not good news, but he had not expected such a reaction from the senior musketeer. He rounded on his friends. Aramis and Porthos were stunned into silence whilst Athos had succeeded in losing whatever colour he had in his face.

"Who does it belong to?" d'Artagnan asked, totally unnerved by what was happening around him. "You recognise it, don't you? All of you?"

Ignoring him, Athos stepped towards Tréville, unsure as to what he was going to do or say but aware that the older man had received a devastating shock. "Captain?"

"I said leave me," Tréville repeated slowly and softly.

"As you wish," Athos conceded, "but we will not go far." He turned on his heels and headed for the door. "Come," he ordered the other three.

He went as far as the balcony and leaned tiredly upon the balustrade as if every iota of energy was suddenly leached from his body. Aramis and Porthos followed and positioned themselves on either side of him as if in unspoken support whilst d'Artagnan, having closed the office door behind him, confronted his three friends, hands on hips.

"Tell me. I have just upset the four of you, especially the Captain, and I want to understand why," he insisted.

Aramis and Porthos looked to Athos as if it were his responsibility to explain.

He sighed and closed his eyes, desperately trying to obliterate from his mind the image of the familiar leather item as it lay on Tréville's desk. It was the stuff of nightmares and, more specifically, of a nightmare that was four years old.

He revolved, faced d'Artagnan and took a deep breath. "The pauldron belongs to Savatier."


	64. Chapter 64

_**Well, I have now surprised myself with three chapters in as many days! Please be warned though that I am driving home tomorrow and am back at work on Wednesday so the next chapter will not appear until the end of the week. I just hope you won't hate me too much with where this chapter ends! Thank you for all the great enouragement this week and, in response to the Guest reviewer, I think you can definitely give a 'delicious cackle!'**_

CHAPTER 64

I

"Savatier?" d'Artagnan could not believe what he was hearing. "Why would Fournier have the pauldron of a musketeer who drowned four years ago?"

"d'Artagnan!" Aramis remonstrated, instinctively urging the young man to think through what he had just said.

"Fournier _is_ Savatier," explained Athos, as he leaned back against the balustrade and gazed at the closed office door, wondering just how long he should tactfully leave Tréville before seeking readmittance to the room. He could not admit to the others how much it had shaken him to see the Captain so deeply affected by the sight of the pauldron when he unwrapped it.

"How do you know that?" d'Artagnan persisted.

Athos abruptly stopped leaning and moved close – too close - to the young musketeer who retreated until his back was against the wall. "Because Savatier is never to be underestimated; we should have learned that lesson four years ago when he stole into the Citadel disguised as a woman to wreak havoc. Somehow, the night when he and Tréville fought and plunged into the sea, he survived. We were mistaken to think that he had drowned. He lived, changed his name and has bided his time and now is hell-bent on retribution."

Porthos said nothing but laid a hand on Athos' arm, easing him back and away from d'Artagnan, an unspoken gesture to encourage him to calm down. It was a hard thing to do as all three of the more experienced musketeers were agitated by what they had seen and what it implied.

"Think about the alternative. Why would someone who found a pauldron, keep it and stash it underneath some floorboards in Paris?" Aramis quietly asked d'Artagnan. "What would be the motivation? It makes no sense. Savatier and Fournier have to be one and the same."

The four men fell silent, each lost in his own thoughts about the pauldron, the return of Savatier and all its ramifications.

They still did not speak when Athos moved towards the office door and knocked. When there was no immediate response, he rapped on the door a little harder. When there was still no invitation to enter or, as he expected, a curt command to go away, he glanced around worriedly at his friends, indicated to them to remain where they were and disappeared unbidden into the room.

Tréville was still sitting at his desk but he had at least picked up the pauldron and let an index finger trace the fine engraving in the leather. He did not comment upon Athos' entrance and looked as if he had aged ten years in as many minutes; his face was grey, the lines around his eyes and mouth more numerous and deeper and his expression grim. Quietly, Athos moved across the office to the tall cupboard where he knew Tréville stored a bottle of brandy and pewter cups and poured out a large measure.

"You're taking liberties," a gruff voice sounded behind him but was devoid of any anger.

There was a mere hint of a smile as Athos delivered the drink, putting it down on the desk in front of the older man.

"I have not been so forward as to pour one for myself," he clarified, standing before the desk.

"Then you'd better rectify that and pull up a chair whilst we decide what we should do next," Tréville instructed.

Minutes later, the two men sat sipping at the warm, amber liquid. Respectfully, Athos maintained his silence and waited for Tréville to speak first but he was relieved to see the other man visibly begin to relax at last.

"So he is back," Tréville said at length. "I was a fool to think that he had perished in the waters off Ré."

"There is no way you could have known this or that the man would be so consumed with the desire for vengeance that he would make his way back to Paris and do what he has done," Athos countered, his voice calm and low.

Tréville looked pained. "It is difficult to accept that someone hates you so much that he would determinedly set out to undermine the work of years and, more importantly, harm and kill those around you."

Athos studied him intently and sought to offer some form of reassurance. "The fault is not yours. He has a distorted grievance which he has allowed to fester over a considerable time. Besides, if he is to lay blame anywhere, he has sufficient reason to hate me too. I thwarted his assassination attempt on Buckingham, denying him any glory he was hoping to achieve."

"His recognition would have been limited, I warrant. Remember, though, that he has made an attack on you recently with that failed shot."

"It may not have been him who fired but one of the men we are holding. Anyway, who really knows who the intended victim was that day. It could have been Porthos or me," Athos pointed out.

"That's as maybe but if his argument is with me, then it would be best if he confronted me rather than involve the rest of you."

"Perhaps he will at some point, but it is this wider action that suggests his problem is with the musketeers as a whole."

Tréville was unconvinced. "I doubt it. He intends to make me suffer and what better way than to inflict as much damage as possible to the regiment and its men. He has bided his time well and waited until we are at out lowest point."

At the veiled reference to his demotion, Tréville worryingly seemed to deflate before Athos' eyes; the younger musketeer could never recall a time when his captain and mentor had been so depressed.

"I don't agree," Athos countered as he attempted to draw him out of his low spirits. "He has come to Paris apparently with three who are willing to help him in his task, but is that the truth? As Huguenots, do they have their own grudge and have come to Paris to take any kind of desperate action to espouse their cause? It could be that he has seen an advantage and attached himself to them, using and manipulating them. He may have influenced them with his knowledge of the city, the palace and the musketeers. Is there a greater threat than we thought to His Majesty? It seems that I have not been far from the mark when I have been advocating that an attack on us is an attack on the King. Perhaps he has seen his confederates as a means to an end, namely his grudge against us."

He had Tréville's attention now, not least because he had said more in one speech than he usually did. Satisfied, he leaned across and refilled the older man's cup.

"I still do not see why he has waited this long." Tréville picked up the cup and downed its contents in one, not even aware of the brandy hitting the back of his throat.

"Planning? Surveillance work?" Athos speculated, warming to his subject as he explored ideas aloud. "He could have been identifying those musketeers whom he wanted to target; checking to see if any of our routines have differed in any way since he was here and, in truth, they haven't, not by much anyway." He paused as Tréville took up the brandy bottle and refilled the cup yet again. Briefly, he debated whether he dared move the bottle beyond the other man's reach; now was not the best time for Tréville to be the worse for drink, although he could fully understand why the man might find some solace in alcohol. To his relief, the full cup remained on the desk top for the time being and he went on with his train of thought.

"I expect he and the others infiltrated a Huguenot cell and hoped to encourage more to join them but, as we have seen in many of the men we have interviewed today, they are content with their lot. They have carved out for themselves a comfortable existence and do not want to endanger that. The fact that you are no longer in command is, I think, an unfortunate coincidence. It may even have forced their hands to act now. A new command might bring with it any number of new changes and make their job more difficult."

"What you mean is we have become slack. I …. have become slack." If it were at all possible, Tréville's shoulders slumped even further and he took another swig of brandy.

Athos tried to mask his concern with feigned anger. "You deliberately misinterpret my words. You know full well that for the rest of us, we continue to regard you as our Captain. You order and we will always follow and that will not change."

"Until the King sees fit to appoint another captain," Tréville said bitterly, picking up the cup once more but choosing only to rotate it in his restless hands.

Somehow Athos needed to shake him out of this negative mood. "But he has not done so, has he? And I question why he has not made such a decision for weeks. He obviously has not found a worthy successor but I prefer to hold fast to the notion that it is merely a delaying tactic. In some perverse way, in his mind and with Rochefort's encouragement, he is still 'teaching' you a lesson and intends to reinstate you when he sees fit."

Tréville looked straight at Athos and it was all the younger man could do not to take a sharp intake of breath. The blue eyes that normally missed nothing and could shrivel a miscreant musketeer with a fixed glare reflected nothing but sheer agony. A physical pain pierced Athos in the chest as he realised that he had never seen the man before him so broken and he felt utterly helpless. Perhaps he should concentrate on getting Tréville blind drunk; at least an unconsciousness brought about by inebriation might save him from the despair in which he found himself, if only temporarily.

"I thank you for your continued support, but perhaps it is time that I recommend you to the King for the position."

"No …. Please, don't even think it," Athos begged, terrified both by the prospect of that responsibility and the possibility that Tréville was just folding in upon himself and giving up.

Resting his elbows on the desk top, Tréville held his head in his hands. "Oh dead God," he groaned.

"What?" Athos fired at him. "What is it?"

"Louis will want updating soon. It was bad enough when we left Ré and I had to report to him that I no longer had a lieutenant because the officer concerned had been instrumental in an assassination attempt upon the Duke of Buckingham, a further act of sabotage within the Citadel and that he and I had fought. We later believed him to have drowned. How do I go to the King and tell him that same man has survived and is behind the attacks upon His Majesty's musketeers, killing many of them and an innocent family whilst bringing terror to the streets of Paris? He thought me incompetent before; he will not have the words to describe my ineptitude now and Rochefort will be insufferable."

"Enough!" Athos snapped, leaping to his feet and leaning on the desk as he loomed over the former officer. He knew he was being insubordinate and he was loath to admit it but he was frightened. Tréville was more of a father to him than his own had ever been and he could not bear to see him so lost. He hoped, more than anything, to rouse the older man to anger, to have him get to his feet as well, to move close in an intimidating manner and give him a verbal dressing down for daring to speak to him like that.

But there was nothing.

If anything, Tréville looked up at him and was slightly startled. It was as if the roles of the past six years had suddenly been reversed.

"We will find Savatier and quickly," Athos declared. "Many of the musketeers know what he looks like so we team them with those who have joined the regiment since Ré. We have the name he is using as well as his true identity and we know the circles in which he has been moving. If necessary, I shall go to Rochefort myself. I can swallow my pride and plead with him for the help of those Red Guards who were in their regiment at the same time Savatier was in Paris. They can give us more man power. The city is not huge so it is not an impossible task. We _will_ find him, even if it means turning over every stone in this city once, twice and twice more. There is nowhere that the man can hide from us." He paused for breath and hoped that he looked as convincing as he tried to sound.

Whether it had truly worked or not, Tréville rewarded him with a weak smile of appreciation.

Athos reached behind him for the chair that he had vacated, dragged it up to the desk and sat again, reinvigorated by the faintly positive response.

"We have to go back to the beginning. Tell me anything you know about him. Let us revisit what happened on Ré; it cannot be too hard for we have just been telling d'Artagnan the main details and reading through the old records. You and I just have to go over it again and again; we need to get inside his head, try to pre-empt his next move or do something that will draw him out. He will not evade us for ever. Think about it, he is working alone and time is against him. Savatier will know soon enough that we have the pauldron and that he is alive. We have increased our security and his opportunities for attacks are diminishing. If anything, he must be getting desperate by now."

A knock at the door interrupted his flow and he stopped, breathing hard and gazing at the older man. When Tréville did not answer, Athos took the initiative and went to the door. It was d'Artagnan.

"I didn't want to intrude but a messenger just arrived from the palace with this," he said, handing a folded paper to Athos and peering through the partially opened door to where Tréville sat in silence.

"Thanks," Athos acknowledged, shutting the door on the curious musketeer. His presumption did not go as far as reading the message that bore the King's seal and was addressed to Tréville so he passed it over.

He did not have to wait long. Tréville rubbed wearily at his bearded jaw as he skimmed the missive. Setting it down on the desk top, he rose and moved to the bed where his weapons belts lay. Athos waited.

Fastening the buckles, he fixed the younger musketeer with an air of resignation. "Organise a team and ready the horses. The King requires my presence at the palace immediately. He wants to know what we have achieved in our investigations."

II

Savatier was only gone long enough to confirm the whereabouts of the men he had determined to visit later so he was back in the room across from the entrance to the garrison in time to witness the messenger's arrival and departure, recognising immediately from his livery that he had come from the palace. It might be that some of the musketeers were summoned to the King's presence so he had to seize the chance as his opportunities were becoming few and far between. Slipping down the stairs, he made sure that his escape route was unencumbered for if a chance presented itself and he took it, he would have to move fast. Perhaps there would be enough confusion as a result to buy him a little more time but he could not depend upon it.

Having loaded and primed the pistol, he settled down to wait and, within thirty minutes, he was rewarded for his patience.

As the gates to the garrison began to creak open and a few passers-by in the street paused to see what was happening, a troop of musketeers rode into view. They were always an impressive sight with their well-groomed mounts, leather uniforms, plumed hats and blue cloaks and Savatier surprised himself at the sudden pang of regret he felt. Shaking his head to refocus, he studied the group and could not believe his luck when he saw that the troop was led out by Tréville and that wretch, Athos.

As he raised the weapon to take aim, he had to make a decision, for he had never hoped to be given such an unexpected choice. When he levelled the barrel, it was reassuring to note that his hand did not tremble at such an auspicious moment.

Aramis and Porthos were riding immediately behind Tréville and Athos, with d'Artagnan behind them and, later, the three of them would recall the events as unfolding in cruel, slow motion.

When the shot sounded, some of the men fought to control their startled animals whilst the civilians in the street screamed and fled for shelter. In a few precious seconds, a myriad of thoughts passed through Athos' mind. The shot had come from the buildings opposite and he was angry at having been fired upon a second time. He ought to dismount and take cover as the other men behind him were sensibly doing but he took a moment to glance towards Tréville who was also still in the saddle at his side. One of them ought to be issuing some instructions, especially as he was aware of more musketeers pouring recklessly through the gates and onto the street. He wondered if the reason for his sluggish brain was because he had been hit and the pain had not erupted yet.

He intended to shout at Tréville to get down but he had no chance to say anything.

The senior musketeer's eyes widened in mild surprise and he gave a low grunt before he slid from the saddle away from Athos to crash to the ground. He lay there unmoving, his body at an awkward angle as his left foot was still caught in the stirrup.


	65. Chapter 65

**_Greetings! So, bit later than the end of the week but once back at work, it was a case of hitting the ground running! Sorry for a glaring typo last chapter. Of course God is not dead, Treville was meant to say 'dear'! Apologies in advance for anything that might have slipped through this week. Thank you for your continued responses and to the new folk who 'follow' or have 'favourited' (making up new verbs/vocabulary now - never mind, Shakespeare did it!) the story since the festive period._**

CHAPTER 65

I

Despite Athos' initial shock, instinct took over. Diving from his mount and landing in the dust, he crawled under the belly of first his and then the other horse to gain quick access to Tréville, throwing himself over the older man to shield him from any further attack and completely ignoring the risk to himself.

"Porthos, you and d'Artagnan, ten men apiece. The shot came from one of those three buildings!" he yelled, his voice somehow carrying above the confusion.

His two friends did not hesitate but gestured to the men around them and crossed the open space at a run, casting a sideways glance as they did so towards the fallen man, completely unaware as to whether or not he still lived. Even Athos had not had the time to check.

"Defensive wall!" he ordered and some twenty musketeers fell into position without question as a protective shield between the buildings and the injured musketeer. Nine knelt and eleven stood behind them, weapons trained on the buildings into which their colleagues had disappeared moments before.

Suddenly, a hand pulled on his arm and Athos looked up to see Aramis crouched at his side, the worry etched deep upon his face.

"I don't …." Athos began but his voice broke as he could not bring himself to wonder aloud whether or not Tréville was alive. Clearing his throat, he summoned up the resolve to answer his unspoken question, even as Aramis began to unbuckle the weapons belts that the older man wore so that he could then turn his attention to the doublet.

Athos touched Tréville's neck and held his breath as he felt for any response at the pulse spot. His fingers, he noted, were slick with the man's blood.

"He lives!" he said, the relieved words tumbling out on an exhalation.

"The ball is in his shoulder, no exit wound," Aramis intoned, trying to be suppress his own emotions and remain matter-of-fact in manner.

Using Aramis' shoulder, Athos pushed himself to his feet, eyes ranging from the frighteningly still man on the ground to the buildings opposite. The street was eerily silent, the panicked mounts having been led back inside the garrison to clear the way and no civilian was in sight. The men providing cover said nothing and, with his senses heightened by the event, Athos was acutely aware of his own ragged, nervous breathing and the shouts of the musketeers communicating with each other from where they searched the rooms for the sniper.

Having naturally assumed an unchallenged command, Athos was torn between following the men on the search and remaining to see that Tréville received all possible care but he knew, without a doubt, that Aramis would use his skill to remove the bullet and tend to his patient.

"I have to go," Athos said to his kneeling friend, the pronouncement sounding like an apology.

"Of course you must," Aramis acknowledged. "I will take care of him. We'll move him inside so that I can get a better look."

Athos was across the street and disappearing into the dark shadows of an alleyway to gain access to the back of the buildings, even as he heard Aramis issue instructions to some of the remaining men to help him carry the former Captain back into the comparative safety of the garrison.

He needed to stay calm and maintain some self-control but it was not easy and he battled the anger that threatened to consume him and darkened his features. All he wanted was to see Savatier bolt from a doorway straight into his path but in his heart he knew it was a vain hope. The man would not have taken the risk to fire upon Tréville if he had not had the means to make good a hasty escape. It had been a futile gesture to order a search but there was always the remote chance that fortune would, for once, favour the musketeers. Feelings would understandably be running high and he did not want to fall foul of an over-enthusiastic trigger finger so he called out a warning to alert his colleagues of his approach.

Porthos and d'Artagnan were the first to emerge from the middle of the three buildings and, in anticipation of Athos' first question, they grimly shook their heads; they had found no-one.

"Tréville?" Porthos queried, reluctant to hear the truth.

"Alive when I left him," was Athos' curt reply. He looked beyond his friends to where more men spilled out of the farthest house. The mixture of shrugs and outspread hands were all that Athos needed to know the outcome and, when a voice behind him announced that no-one had been discovered in the nearest building, the pent up anger and frustration had to be vented somehow so that it came as a surprise to all when Athos drew back a fist and slammed it into the wall, emitting a guttural snarl as he did so.

"He was probably in the middle property," d'Artagnan tentatively explained. "It was obviously once secured but a couple of boards had been loosened and there was evidence that someone had been there recently for the dust was disturbed and there were visible footprints."

Athos refused to make eye contact and he shuddered as he strove to bring his warring emotions under control, whilst ignoring the pain that pulsated through his bleeding, abused knuckles. It was a stupid eruption of fury and had achieved precisely nothing, apart from fuelling his angst.

"Back to the garrison," he ordered without raising his voice. He did not even wait for the other men to follow but merely strode ahead of them, shoulders tight with barely suppressed feelings.

"That could have gone a lot worse," d'Artagnan dared to breathe as he watched the departing musketeer.

"Don't you believe it," Porthos warned. "He's so fired up right now, he's either goin' to explode or hide away somewhere and drown 'imself in wine."

"I don't think much of either option," d'Artagnan decided. "Besides, Athos said that the King was demanding an 'immediate' update on how the investigation was going. We're a bit past that now and the King is still waiting; he is not going to be very pleased."

Porthos groaned aloud as he looked down at himself and saw the fine coating of grime that had adhered to the leather of his uniform. "We'd all got cleaned up too. Now look at us. We clean up again an' it's goin' to make us even later. No doubt Athos'll be spokesperson an' if the King starts on at 'im about 'is lack of punctuality, I dread to think what 'e's goin' to say because it won't matter to 'im, the mood he's in, that it's the King who's said it!"

D'Artagnan looked alarmed at the idea. "We'd better make sure that we are amongst those that accompany him then, to offer restraint and advice if need be."

"Good luck with that one," Porthos countered. "C'mon, he'll be wonderin' where we are, an' I for one don't want to be standin' here with Savatier still on the loose." He looked around at the windows of all the neighbouring buildings as if he half expected the former musketeer lieutenant to be standing brazenly at one of them.

D'Artagnan nervously did likewise. "You don't expect him to still be in the area, do you?"

Porthos took time to remove his hat and brush away a stray cobweb from the brim that he had picked up during their search. Slapping it against his thigh, he answered. "No, not for the moment but I do believe he'll be back."

"But he must know we'll notch the security up even more, that he's been identified by the pauldron and must, by our reckoning, be Paris' most wanted man at present?"

"I grant you that," Porthos agreed, "but he has unfinished business. I've got a feelin' he'll want to make sure that Tréville's dead an' I wouldn't be at all surprised if Athos weren't high on his list an' was next."

D'Artagnan's jaw dropped at the suggestion but what worried him more was the fact that he could not deny the likelihood of Porthos' concerns.

II

Athos threw open the door of the infirmary and caught it just before it slammed back on its hinges.

Aramis was already struggling to remove the ball from Tréville's shoulder and bloodied rags littered the floor around where he worked. Anxiously approaching the table where the injured man lay, mercifully unconscious, Athos watched as Aramis slowly and successfully withdrew the offending piece of metal and dropped it into a bowl with a muted exclamation.

"How is he?" Athos asked softly.

Aramis rounded on him, somewhat surprised as he had not seen or heard the noisy arrival of his friend, so intent had he been with extracting the ball. "Infection aside, he should be fine. The ball was deep but has fortunately done little damage and it is his left arm - "

"Where he was injured before," interrupted Athos, thinking of the day when Tréville had fought LaBarge, briefly of the Cardinal's Red Guard, for the honour of the regiment. When he had been hurt, d'Artagnan had taken over and, with his victory, had secured musketeer superiority over Richelieu's men, become the King's champion and, more importantly, won his commission.

"That was months ago," Aramis reassured him. "He fully recovered and I expect him to do the same here."

Athos laid his hand upon the good shoulder of the unconscious man, a gesture that did not go unnoticed by Aramis, who gave a brief smile and dipped his head, hoping that Athos, having temporarily forgotten that Aramis was still present, would not see that his unguarded moment of concern had been witnessed. Suddenly, the swordsman spoke and it took Aramis a moment to realise that the whispered words were not for his benefit but for the stricken musketeer. He went back to gathering up the discarded rags and the bowl of bloodied water to discard them.

When he returned, Athos had still not moved and was silently watching the older man. As Aramis reached out to feel Tréville's forehead for the first signs of fever, Athos spoke again.

"He will recover?"

"I said he should and that …" Aramis broke off when he saw the agonised green eyes studying him, desperate for a reassurance that the marksman was not fully able to give. "I have taken out the ball, made sure the wound is clean and done all I can to stave off infection. Apart from giving him something for the pain, the speed of his recovery is down to Tréville himself and we all know that he is a fighter." His eyes widened as a low moan escaped Athos, who leaped to his feet and walked to the window. Back to Aramis, hands braced on the windowsill, tense arms supporting his weight, Athos stood with his head bowed.

"Athos! What is it? What's the matter?" Aramis worriedly moved to stand beside his friend but there was no response. "What aren't you telling me?"

Head still bowed, Athos shut his eyes and shook his head, crushed by the memory of how Tréville had been and looked earlier. So much had happened in less than two hours. How could he give voice to the fear that now weighed so heavily upon him, the fear that Tréville no longer had either the will or the fight to go on? It had begun with losing his command and the faith of the King when he made the ill-fated decision to turn down the offer to serve his monarch in a new capacity as council member when Richelieu died. It had escalated with the cold-blooded murder of musketeers and loved ones and culminated in the discovery that Savatier was still alive.

And now this brutal attack upon his very person.

Athos refused to accept any notion of weakness in his friend, mentor and commander. That was not something that he had ever seen in Tréville. Yes, he must have had doubts over decisions; that was the lot of any commander with authority and responsibility, and Athos knew the man must have had many a sleepless night, especially in the aftermath of Savoy and the massacre of so many musketeers. However, Tréville kept the pain and lack of surety concealed from his men, allowing them only to receive a brief nod of approval, a gruff word of praise, a winsome smile of encouragement and the withering, blue-eyed glare that accompanied any chastisement.

For all that, he was loved, revered and trusted, and his men had surreptitiously done whatever they could to demonstrate their unchanging regard for him since his demotion. Now, Athos could not help but wonder if that was enough. Had they helped or had their undisguised support chipped away at that brusque, military demeanour to lay open the heart of the man and leave him defenceless? How could Athos not have seen how the despair and sense of uselessness had eaten away at the man, destroying his self-esteem? He had to commend Tréville for successfully and skilfully hiding it for so long.

He choked back a bitter laugh. Wasn't he, Athos, his own worst enemy? Didn't he try his utmost to conceal as much as possible still from those who, by their very example, sought to convince him on a daily basis of their love and friendship for him, namely his brothers and Tréville himself? How could he berate the man for doing what he had done himself every day for years?

Everyone had his breaking point, although some reached it a lot sooner than others but it was there. The question remained whether or not the individual could pick himself up and drag himself back to the starting point and beyond. Did Tréville still have the strength and willpower to attempt it? Did he even want to try? Would the consequences of a gunshot wound solve a multitude of problems for the former captain?

"Athos, speak to me," Aramis caught his arm and turned unresponsive musketeer towards him. As he did so, he caught sight of the bleeding knuckles. "How did this happen? Let me deal with it."

Allowing himself to be propelled towards a chair and made to sit, Athos patiently waited whilst Aramis retrieved what he needed to bathe the bloodied hand and apply a salve. Silent all the while, he listened to Aramis conduct a one-sided conversation, plying him with questions. Numb, he gave a noncommittal answer about how he had come to hurt himself and heard the huff of disbelief and frustration but if he happened to say too much, it would be only one small step more to explain why he had reacted the way he did when Savatier escaped; that might lead to him revealing what had transpired in Tréville's office and, to Athos' way of thinking, that was tantamount to a betrayal. Even if this friends had their suspicions, it was not for him to divulge the depths of despair to which the man had fallen.

Eventually Aramis gave up, knowing just how intransigent his friend could be and wondered if he would be any closer to finding out the truth – or part of it – in the days, weeks, months or even years ahead. He was spared further speculation when the door opened to admit Porthos and d'Artagnan.

"Shut the door if you're coming in," Aramis scolded as they faltered nervously on the threshold. Gently, he tapped Athos on the arm to indicate that he had finished administering treatment. "You're done. Make sure you don't give in to any more compunctions to punch walls in the near future."

Athos merely raised an eyebrow at the advice.

"Don't try telling me that wasn't what happened. I've seen the self-same injuries to Porthos' hands and I've seen the walls suffer too," Aramis went on.

"It was a spectacular punch," d'Artagnan added and looked abashed when Athos glared at him for the confirmation. "Sorry," he mumbled.

Porthos glanced at the table where Tréville lay. "How is he?"

"Resting," Aramis said before explaining that the ball had come out cleanly and how he had subsequently dealt with the wound. "Now you're here, you can help me move him to that bed there."

"No problem." As Porthos stepped up to the table, he could not miss the state of Athos' uniform.

Where the swordsman had scrabbled on the dusty ground, fine grains had coated the leather, aided and abetted by the liberal staining of blood. When distracted, Athos had a habit of running his hands through his hair, something he had obviously been doing frequently since the launch of the most recent attack and now it was matted, wild and dusty. In short, he was not fit to be seen at the palace.

"Er," Porthos began warily, "the King is still waiting for news. We'd better get cleaned up quickly and head over there." He included all of them in the suggestion, not only because it was true that they all needed to improve upon their appearance, but because he knew better than to tell Athos bluntly that he looked a mess. There were protocols and standards at the palace that had to be observed after all.

"No," Athos suddenly declared as he stood up.

"What?" d'Artagnan asked, wondering if he had heard correctly.

"No, I'm going as I am," was the obstinate reply.

"You are covered in dirt and blood," Porthos reminded him.

"And it's Tréville's blood," Athos retorted. "The King will see and know what has happened. We have come under attack again _en route_ to the palace to do the King's bidding. Savatier is out there and Tréville is injured. Louis _will_ know the price that has been paid here today and in recent weeks; I will make him see and understand. No-one will tidy themselves and that is _my_ order. Louis can deal with it – or me." He moved towards the door, pausing only to give Aramis an instruction, an unnecessary one in the circumstances for it had not occurred to Aramis to leave the side of the injured man. "Stay with Tréville and look after him."

"I will." Aramis' words were delivered to an empty doorway for his friend had already gone.

Porthos and d'Artagnan traded knowing looks once more.

"This could be interesting," d'Artagnan said slowly.

"Yeah," Porthos agreed, his brow already creasing in consternation. "Just throw into the mix a less than 'elpful comment from Rochefort an' I can see it bein' a whole heap o' fun."


	66. Chapter 66

**_Wow, thank you so much for the great feedback after the last chapter. This one does make a reference to 'Renegade' which, in my scheme of things, happens a few months prior to these 1631 events. You do not need to have read it to follow what happens here; I have tried to explain enough without spoiling it if you haven't got around to reading it yet._**

 ** _However, I know you're all desperate to know what happens when a group of dirty, emotionally charged musketeers turn up at the palace a couple of hours late for a meeting with the King so here goes. The question remains, can Athos maintain any semblance of self-control or will his pent-up anger find a necessary release? Read on to find out!_**

CHAPTER 66

Louis had had more than enough time to work himself up into an apoplectic rage, totally ignoring the entreaties of his Queen to calm himself and take his ease whilst he awaited a visitation from the tardy musketeers. Instead, he paced the room, punctuating his loud protestations with agitated finger pointing in the air or stabbing at a piece of furniture as he passed it.

Rochefort stood to one side, an outwardly benign expression upon his face that concealed the jubilation he felt. He had been concerned of late at the King's growing sympathy towards Tréville and the regiment, but was mindful of the last rebuke he had received by Louis for demeaning the King's men so he did not try to press an advantage. He had bided his time and now that patience, hard as it had been, had brought dividends for Tréville had let down His Majesty on what had to be one last occasion; this situation had to see his instant removal from the garrison. Rochefort could not understand why he had been allowed to remain; his dismissal should have been instantaneous. It surely could not be avoided this time and it would be even better if he took that mess of a drunkard with him. In fact, it would be no loss if all the damned _Inseparables_ could be encouraged to depart as well.

Then, perhaps, he could persuade the King to disband the incompetent musketeers or absorb them into the Red Guard as his late mentor, Cardinal Richelieu, had so frequently wished. Had he not been working hard to demand increased discipline and training within his own regiment? Had they not shown definite progress? The current situation whereby the musketeers' palace duties had been subsumed by the Red Guard could be nothing but beneficial to Rochefort's men if handled correctly. The King would see how indispensable they would be. No, it was clear to all that the musketeers had had their day.

He had to suppress a smirk as an uncharitable thought crossed his mind. If he were ever to find out the person or persons behind the attacks upon the musketeers, he would congratulate them heartily, buy them a drink, perhaps find the means for a more surreptitious reward and definitely thank them for a job well done. It would certainly save him the time and effort in planning how he would personally bring about the downfall of the regiment.

"Did I not insist upon an immediate appearance?" Louis was whining. "What could possibly have detained them that is more important than my wishes?"

"I cannot possible think of a justifiable reason, Your Majesty," Rochefort said, his voice oozing a sickly sycophancy. "Your messenger stated that there had been no problem in delivering the message; Tréville and his men were apparently all there, taking refuge within the garrison walls."

Louis paused in his pacing at the slight and frowned hard. "You would do well to mind your comments, Rochefort; it is a habit of yours about which I seem to have to keep reminding you."

Rochefort dipped a head in acknowledgement. "My humblest apologies, Your Majesty, but you must forgive me when I speak out when I witness perceived snubs against your person. As you so rightly say, Tréville should have stopped whatever he was doing to attend upon Your Majesty. There can be no excuse for any delay, no matter how brief, and this has been unconscionable in its length."

"We do not know but perhaps there is good enough reason," the Queen intervened.

"How so, my love?" Louis was perplexed.

She smiled warmly at her husband even as she attempted to make him see alternatives. "Did you not say that the Musketeers were following lines of inquiry? They held back from telling you too much before because of the delicate nature of the enterprise. Perhaps they are in the process of something and feel it is more appropriate to conclude that in order to give you the most up to date information."

Louis clapped his hands delightedly at her insight. "Capital! Naturally that is what it will be! No doubt they are in the very process of apprehending those responsible."

Rochefort watched the royal couple smiling warmly at the prospect of the trouble being over and raised a finger in hesitant reflection. "An admirable point, Your Majesty," he began, addressing the Queen, "but surely Tréville could have sent a reply to that effect just to put His Majesty's mind at rest."

The negative comment was a small seed that, once planted, flourished rapidly to become a weed capable of choking and souring the King's lighter mood.

"An interesting detail," Louis conceded.

"It is just another example of how Tréville continues to disappoint Your Majesty," Rochefort quietly pressed home the cause behind the King's displeasure.

The Queen saw the doubts beginning to form again in her husband's mind. "I would not be so quick to disparage Tréville. For all the problems of late, he has spent many years being a loyal soldier and commander; they should not be swept aside so soon. I say again that I am sure that we will find there has been a justifiable reason for the delay."

"But of course, Your Majesty," and Rochefort flashed her a smile that did not reach his eyes. "You are always so forgiving, so eager to see the good in all."

The sound of raised voices in the corridor beyond the closed doors attracted their attention; there was some form of disagreement occurring. Rochefort half drew his sword in readiness to protect the King and Queen, recalling that there were two of his Red Guard positioned outside the room and others stationed at various points in the hallways.

One of the double doors opened abruptly and a flustered, indignant guard entered but had barely begun to speak when he was pushed aside and three tall musketeers strode into the room. They took several paces before stopping as one, bowing low with the customary outstretched foreleg.

Athos was to the front with Porthos and d'Artagnan slightly behind and to each side.

"How dare you burst in upon His Majesty without so much as a by-your-leave," Rochefort said indignantly.

Athos totally ignored him. "My apologies, Your Majesty, in keeping you waiting but there have been mitigating circumstances …"

Before he had the chance to explain further, Rochefort interrupted him, having noticed the musketeer's dishevelled appearance. "What are you thinking, man, that you come before His Majesty in so filthy a state? Retire and clean up and then, perhaps, His Majesty will give you audience."

"Your Majesty, I am here in response to your request for information and have come as soon as was possible," Athos said, addressing the monarch, but finding a brief moment to shoot a glare in Rochefort's direction in response to the interruption.

"I do not think you heard what I said, musketeer," Rochefort began, his tone suggesting the contempt with which he held the regiment and, in this instance, Athos. "You are not welcome in His Majesty's presence in such a mess."

At last, Athos gave Rochefort his attention in this open battle of wills. "I am here to see His Majesty, not you, and I am hoping that news of a further attack upon his regiment will take precedence over how untidy my uniform might be at present." He turned back to Louis and dipped his head again in deference. "Sire, I wait upon your pleasure to bring you mixed news; we have made significant progress and identified those responsible for the attacks upon your regiment. We have three in custody but, unfortunately, the fourth remained free and perpetrated another assault."

"Naturally the musketeers could only partly deal with a situation. Heaven forbid that they could do something successfully or in its entirety," Rochefort muttered his opinion loudly enough for the room's occupants to hear.

Porthos scowled, his hand resting tensely upon his sword. D'Artagnan was not sure whether he ought to be watching the big man at his side or the one in front who had straightened at the ill-concealed insult.

"You speak, Sir, about things you do not know and for that, I am prepared to overlook your ignorance," Athos said, his words clipped and an indication of how tightly he was trying to keep his temper in check.

It was Rochefort's turn to stiffen as he understood only too well the implied ambiguity of the word 'ignorance'. Porthos struggled to stifle a grin and did not dare look in d'Artagnan's direction. Athos was the master of the veiled affront.

"If Your Majesty would prefer me to make myself more presentable first, then so be it, but I hastened here without taking care of that because I knew you were eagerly awaiting news, Sire."

Louis hesitated. "Your news first. I want to hear of this latest attack."

The Queen had been studying Athos closely and, suddenly, she gasped and raised a hand to her mouth in consternation. "Is that blood upon your doublet?"

Athos inwardly chastised himself. He had wanted to shock the King by attending upon him in a blood-stained uniform but he had completely overlooked the probable presence of the Queen and her sensibilities. He wondered how and if he should attempt to soften the blow as she was always a stalwart supporter of the former Captain.

"Well?" Louis prompted, irritated at not having noticed the tell-tale stains and allowing himself to be distracted by Rochefort's comments. "Is it blood? I take it that you have received no hurt?"

"No, Sire; I am unharmed. I am sad to report that it is Tréville's blood."

His decision to make a blunt pronouncement served its purpose. Whilst Rochefort was momentarily taken aback, he could not hide an element of delight. The Queen's eyes misted with tears but it was Louis' reaction that was the best of all. Staggering backwards, he felt for the seat behind him and dropped heavily into it, eyes wide and his mouth forming a silent 'oh'. With a slight inclination of his head, Athos signalled to d'Artagnan to approach a nearby table on which a jug of wine and goblets stood in readiness. He waited until the young musketeer had poured a generous amount and handed the drink to the King, who swallowed down a large mouthful before speaking.

"Is he …?" The question remained unfinished.

"When I left the garrison, the musket ball had been removed but he had not yet regained consciousness. The prognosis is good, however."

Louis gave a huge sigh of relief. His Queen had been correct; whatever had come to pass in recent weeks that had led him to remove the man from command, he could not forget the years of devoted service, sage advice and, if truth be known, friendship that he had received from Tréville and he suddenly realised what he had almost permanently lost. He might deliberately be keeping the man at arm's length but he could not confess to knowing where the current impasse might be heading, for he was well aware that he had not appointed a new captain to the regiment. He could not even explain to himself why the replacement had not been chosen.

"Proceed with your report," Louis ordered with a wave of the hand.

Athos began, his words loud, clear and economical as he recounted how they had chosen the Huguenots they had targeted, the apprehension of the men, their subsequent questioning and the resultant conclusions from what had been discovered. The men Tréville had wanted to see returned to the chatelet were still within the garrison, as were the three men they were going to interview again, for they had become second place in the light of more recent events. Then he took a deep breath before revealing the news of the discovered pauldron and the devastating realisation that it belonged to Savatier.

Feeling himself side-lined during the report, Rochefort knew from the King's reaction to the information that this Savatier was significant. He had never been in Paris whilst the man was Tréville's lieutenant so he did not know of him, nor had he been at La Rochelle, so he had plenty of questions that he did not hold back from asking. Between them, Athos and Louis provided answers but it did not escape the musketeer's notice that Rochefort listened very attentively, a barely suppressed satisfaction suggesting that he found the notion amusing of one of their own turning on the regiment. Athos was not going to take him to task about his discourteous attitude in front of the King but no doubt an opportunity would arise at some point.

Athos finished with an account of the attack when they had left the garrison for the palace and there was an encouraging moment of remorse from Louis.

"If I had not been so intent upon hearing your news, this might not have happened," he said sorrowfully.

"I fear that it would have happened at some point, Sire," Athos sought to reassure him. "Savatier was hiding in a building nearly opposite the garrison gates. We had already searched the property following the arson attack and found it empty. Our effort to board it up to keep it inaccessible did not deter him. If he was intent in making an attempt upon Tréville's life, he would have waited and used any opportunity."

It sounded so odd referring to his former captain merely by surname. It might have been how the musketeers talked of him between themselves but here it sounded disrespectful. Athos knew better, though, than to anger the King by 'accidentally' affording the man his previous rank, even if that was how the men of the regiment continued to regard him.

"What is your next plan?" Louis asked.

Athos drew in a deep breath for he had not had the time to think about what should happen thereafter. Now he would have to come up with something that sounded plausible as an action.

He nodded in Rochefort's direction and, although it went against the grain, knew that he had to appear beholden to the man and his men. "We appreciate what the Red Guard is doing at present by covering Musketeer duties at the palace. We would impose upon their good will a little further on two counts. There are the men who need to be returned to the chatelet; they would be safe enough with a Red Guard escort. Also, we would welcome the assistance of any in the Red Guard who were in the regiment some four years ago and who would be able to recognise Savatier as we step up our search."

He refused to make eye contact with the odious man but focused all his attention on the monarch, asking him directly for the necessary help.

"Of course Rochefort will have the men transferred and make available any who knew Savatier," the King agreed.

If a refusal had been in Rochefort's mind or on his lips, he knew when he was defeated and his thoughts had already begun to race as he sought possible ways to turn this situation to his advantage. He gave what he hoped would be a gracious smile but it turned into something resembling the grimace of a man in pain.

"Of course, Your Majesty. Whatever you require of the Red Guard to ease the tribulation of your beleaguered regiment, you only have to ask and we will be honoured to offer any assistance we can."

Porthos fixed his attention upon a fascinating pattern on the marble flooring in front of him and breathed hard to control his own developing ire at what he was hearing. Was Louis the only person in the room oblivious to Rochefort's antics?

"I knew we could depend upon you," the King said warmly.

The anger in Porthos notched up another level. Did he detect any sarcasm in Louis' response or was it another devastating affirmation as to how much the King had come to rely upon and value the man? He glanced at Athos and saw how his friend's shoulders had tightened.

The King was addressing him again, asking if there were anything else to be done.

"When Tréville has regained consciousness," Athos continued, "we need to talk about Savatier and when he first joined the regiment to determine whether or not there are any contacts in Paris where Savatier might find some refuge. We need to return to the Huguenot cells to see if he has gone back there or at least to question them to find out why he seems to have thrown in his lot with them, if he has converted to their way of thinking or if he is merely using them as a cover. The gates to Paris need to have men on them who would recognise him."

"Time has passed since Tréville was shot. Savatier has had more than enough opportunity to leave the city," Rochefort interposed.

"I do not believe he will have gone yet. He has had years to think about this and I only hope, at some point, that we will have the chance to find out what exactly has motivated him. For now, I can have a good guess but that is all it is. No, he is still here for he has unfinished business, not least when he discovers that Tréville has survived his murderous attempt."

Little did he know that he was echoing Porthos' earlier words to d'Artagnan; he would have been interested that they were thinking similar things, as worrying as the actual ideas might be.

"Finalise what you need and tell me," said Louis, rising to his feet and extending a hand to his Queen as an indication that the audience had concluded. "I trust that when you return to the garrison, you will find Tréville much better."

"Thank you, Sire," Athos responded and, along with his brothers, bowed low.

Louis paused a moment and studied the tousled head, the dusty and blood-stained uniform. He knew the musketeer in front of him was fiercely loyal to the demoted officer and he wondered if resentment at his decision ran deep. However, there had not been any obvious indication of it and, since the deaths of the musketeers began, Athos had presented himself as a formidable thinker and strategist.

It was not too many months since he had been in the position as acting Captain of the musketeers when Tréville had been abducted and, Louis had to admit, he had comported himself well until events had conspired against him and the King had been manipulated into replacing him. He had resigned his commission and there had been a worrying time when a sizeable number of musketeers had left to follow him and Louis had been led to believe that the man had turned renegade. If so many men were ready to lose their livelihoods to follow this man out of a sense of unequivocal loyalty, he was someone who needed to be regarded carefully.

Louis remembered that Tréville had spoken highly of him on more than one occasion and an idea began to form. Depending upon how this current situation was resolved, perhaps he was looking at the next Captain of his musketeer regiment.

When the door closed upon the departing royals, the three musketeers straightened. Rochefort was already staring hard at Athos.

"I will give you the assistance you require because the King has ordered it but you can expect the minimum," he announced, making sure that Athos understood his position.

The musketeer fixed him with unwavering green eyes. "I am under no illusion that you give your aid willingly but I expect your men to follow my orders until Tréville has recovered."

"You expect a lot," Rochefort spat out. "Tell me, why do you persist in defending that washed-up apology of a soldier?"

It was one insult too many and Athos snapped. He had seen Tréville trying to be strong in the face of a humiliating and very public fall from royal favour. Earlier this afternoon, he had been exceedingly worried about the state of mind of the older man and then, to make matters worse, Tréville had been shot. To Athos, he was far from being a 'washed-up apology of a soldier' and no dangerous, sycophantic weasel was going to describe him as such and get away with it.

Porthos and d'Artagnan were just inwardly celebrating the fact that Athos had held his temper and dealt comfortably with both Louis and, more importantly, the jibes of Rochefort. Although they heard and winced at Rochefort's last words, they anticipated that, as the audience with the King was over, Athos might continue to maintain his control, even if they had seen that every muscle in his body was so taut, he was close to that breaking point.

Being wrong, they were unprepared for what happened next.

Taking a long, swift stride towards the blond man, Athos threw a right punch of which Porthos would have been proud. All his weight was behind it and into it went all the suppressed animosity that had accrued with the man's insidious comments.

Rochefort was taken by surprise, staggered back a pace but could not retain his balance. Toppling, he landed heavily on his back on the hard floor, groaning loudly with the bone-jarring impact.

Eyes narrowed in an otherwise impassive face, Athos stood over him, both hands clenched into tight fists. Anxious that he might follow through with something else, D'Artagnan made to move forwards but, grinning wildly at what he perceived to be a justifiable punishment for Rochefort, Porthos' arm shot out and held back the young musketeer.

Rochefort continued to lie on the floor, a hand gingerly rubbing his aching jaw.

"That is the second time you have punched me," he said bitterly.

"I know," Athos acknowledged, "and the first time I told you it felt good. Rest assured, this felt even better."


	67. Chapter 67

_**Dear all, apologies for a short chapter from me but things are very busy at present so I thought I would post a little rather than delay for a few more days. Athos is getting into thinking and planning mode here and this will continue into the next chapter where, I assure you, the musketeers will find out that Savatier is by no means finished yet!**_

CHAPTER 67

As the trio rode back to the garrison with the other men who had accompanied them, Athos would not be drawn into conversation about what had transpired between him and Rochefort. Still he had to endure Porthos and d'Artagnan's awed dialogue as they relived the incident repeatedly until he curtly ordered them to be silent and pulled ahead a little way. Fortunately for them, he could not see the big grins they wore nor hear d'Artagnan's whispered comment about the fact that Aramis would be aggrieved that he had missed the encounter. He was too preoccupied with flexing the fingers of his right hand. First a wall and then Rochefort's hard jaw – not the wisest of moves! His knuckles had reopened and he could feel the dampness of blood inside his glove without removing it to inspect the damage.

Athos' immediate destination was the infirmary. Slipping into the room quietly, he found Aramis dozing in the chair closest to the cot where Tréville lay unmoving and, approaching quietly, settled onto an adjacent seat. Sensing his presence, Aramis opened a sleepy eye to identify the newcomer, awoke fully and straightened up with a welcoming smile.

"Has he woken?" Athos asked worriedly, his eyes fixed upon the patient.

"Yes," Aramis whispered. "He has had some water and I have given him something else for the pain. He rests quietly now."

"How did he seem to you?" Consternation as to the man's mood remained uppermost in Athos' mind.

Aramis stretched to ease the stiffness in his back from the way he had been slumped and raised his eyebrows. "He was somewhat confused but I gave him a simple version of what had happened. He could recall being on the way to see Louis and his overriding anxiety was keeping the King waiting but I assured him that you had gone to the palace in his stead."

He shot Athos a sideways glance but the swordsman continued to study the slow rise and fall of the sleeping man's chest, hard proof that he still lived and breathed.

"Will he recover?"

It was an unreasonable question for not much time had elapsed since the last occasion when Athos had asked the same thing. He was desperate for some reassurance but the stoic mask had descended and his tone was soft, even and matter-of-fact, just as if he were asking about the likelihood of rain.

Aramis refused to be drawn into making a bold, reckless statement. "He should do if he stays free from infection. There was considerable blood loss so if he can rest, drink plenty and eat to regain his strength, I foresee no real problems to prevent a total and, dare I say it, swift recovery. I am just relieved that after the incident when d'Artagnan and the others were attacked accompanying the supply cart, we decided to move the family out of here and found them a cupboard. The mess was no place for treating the injured and tending the dead, especially if there were to be a substantial assault upon us. All our medicines, bandages and such like are more easily found here."

There was a slight quirk of a smile as Athos remembered having to rehouse the musketeer, his wife and five children from the infirmary to what was indeed a cupboard, albeit a large, walk-in one which had had to be emptied of its mountainous pile of contents first. Conditions were understandably cramped but that was infinitely preferable to Serge's wrath at interruptions to his smooth-running kitchen and the risk of the already low morale of the men plummeting further if there were to be no communal space because the injured were to be tended there.

Aramis broke the silence that had descended. "How was your meeting with Louis?"

There was a shrug as an initial response. "Predictable. He was in high dudgeon when we first arrived but when he gave me the chance to explain, he was very concerned for Tréville and supportive – unlike Rochefort."

"Why should he be upset?"

Athos sighed. "I asked for help from the Red Guard."

"Why would you do that?" Aramis was astonished; it was enough that they had taken over the palace security detail.

"Anyone who is able to identify Savatier can help make our search faster," Athos explained. "Anyway the King instructed him to comply to which he was not happy …. and then he became even more reluctant." He was thinking back to the punch and his left hand gently began massaging the stinging right one.

"So did you hit another problem?"

Athos frowned as he thought carefully about how he should reply and said slowly, "Not a problem exactly, no."

Years of knowing the man, his nuances and ability in twisting just how much he would reveal rang alarm bells with Aramis.

"Then what did you …" his words trailed off as realisation dawned. "Not what? Who?" When Athos refused to make eye contact with him, he groaned. "Athos, what have you done?"

"Why don't you ask Porthos and d'Artagnan? They are bursting to tell you and I would hate to deprive them of a little pleasure. Why don't you go and find them? Have a break, learn the finer details of our visit to the palace and I will stay here with Tréville."

Aramis knew that he was not going to learn any more from his reticent friend. "I will do just that. I will ask them for their account," and he started for the door.

"And no doubt they will imbue their tale with colourful exaggeration," Athos speculated to the departing figure.

Left alone with the sleeping man, he lit candles that bathed that section of the room in a warm, flickering glow and settled down for a long wait as the early evening shadows lengthened. There were two brief interruptions when d'Artagnan appeared, firstly to offer to relieve him so that he could go and eat and secondly to bring him some food when he refused to move.

He picked at his supper, not hungry, and then sat pondering over what he knew of Savatier, anything that he could remember. In the silence, the only sound was of Tréville's soft breathing. So absorbed was he in his thoughts that he did not realise the man had begun to stir until a hoarse whisper caught his attention.

"Don't you ever rest?"

The corners of Athos' mouth twitched – the sum total of a smile. "Only when absolutely necessary."

Unbidden, he poured a cup of water and was about to slip his hand beneath Tréville's head to raise him enough to drink comfortably but the older man frowned.

"Help me sit up," he ordered gruffly, gesturing to the other musketeer to give him a hand. "Judging by the darkness outside, I've done enough sleeping."

"Aramis would not like to see you trying to do too much too soon," Athos warned, holding back.

"What Aramis doesn't know can't hurt him," Tréville insisted, holding out his good hand.

Shaking his head at the idea, Athos still took the proffered hand in his own and slid the other under the older man's arm to give him more support as he tried to ease him into a sitting position with minimal fuss or discomfort. It was a couple of minutes before Tréville, breathing hard with sweat upon his brow at the exertion, was sitting propped up by pillows. Neither of them made mention of the grunts of pain that had escaped him with the effort. He took the cup of water and sipped at it gratefully.

"Feeling better?" Athos asked wrily.

"Feeling hungry," Tréville corrected.

"That's good to hear. I shall go to the kitchen and get you something," and Athos made to stand but Tréville stopped him with a hand upon his arm.

"No need; I'll just help you eat yours," and he inclined his head towards the tray of untouched food. "Serge would not be happy to see that amount of food wasted so I will help you out of a spot of bother."

"The stew is cold now but there is the bread and cheese," Athos offered, ignoring the bowl of congealed meat and vegetables as he placed another full plate in Tréville's lap."

"That's good enough for me. Aramis said you had gone to the palace to see Louis so, whilst I eat, you can tell me what happened."

The bargain struck, Athos began his account of what had transpired earlier at the Louvre, leaving out no detail of what the King had said before or after hearing of the attack upon Tréville. He made no sign that he was aware of the older man picking at the food, the appetite not matching the desire for sustenance. As Tréville chewed the small mouthfuls that he took, he nodded at salient points, appreciating what he was hearing.

"And the interview was concluded?" he asked when Athos sat back in his chair. "There was nothing else?"

Athos wondered just how much he should confess and decided it had to be everything. "Not quite. I did punch Rochefort hard enough to leave him sitting on the floor." He waited, fully expecting a dressing down – if his listener had the energy and inclination.

There was a lengthy pause as Tréville stopped and stared at him, a piece of bread and cheese halfway to his mouth, and then he laughed aloud – before his face contorted as pain knifed through his shoulder at the movement.

"Do you want something to take the edge off the pain?" Athos asked anxiously, glancing around hastily to see if Aramis had left anything available.

"No, no," Tréville assured him. "That mental picture was remedy enough." He grew serious. "Are you going to tell me why?"

Athos hesitated before answering. "Not in so many words. Suffice it to say he was disparaging once too often and I had had enough – so I hit him. It was not exactly an honourable move on my part, I fully admit, but the King had gone and I was sick of Rochefort's barbed comments and so I reacted. I will not be making any apology for I am not sorry in the slightest, so I will save my breath and not be a hypocrite but I thought it better to make you aware of this in case there are repercussions and he makes a formal complaint or something."

"He may complain all he likes," Tréville said, a gleam evident in his eye that had been sadly missing for far too long. "I am only sorry that I was not there to witness it myself – but perhaps, had I been, you wouldn't have done it. I think I would have liked the opportunity to sit him on his backside myself. Who knows, maybe one day …."

He let his voice trail off but Athos felt the first stirrings of encouragement at what he was hearing. Was the Tréville of old beginning to re-emerge? There were more pressing matters though.

"We need to talk about Savatier; where he might be and to speculate on his next move," Athos began, wondering what the mention of the former musketeer might do to Tréville.

"So you arranged with the Red Guard that they will collect the prisoners for the Chatelet tomorrow morning?" Tréville asked for clarification, to which Athos nodded. "And the city gates are to be manned by musketeers and Red Guard working together?"

"That will be in place from tomorrow as well. For tonight, our numbers are spread very thinly and that is of no small concern. We are guarding those going back to the Chatelet and the three who were working with Savatier, whilst maintaining an increased watch within the garrison, but I have also sent large contingents of musketeers to the gates, still trying to hold fast to the idea of there being safety in numbers. It didn't help us when we left here today, I know, but he will either have gone to ground or is making a desperate bid to exit the city. Somehow I do not hold with the latter notion."

"Nor do I," Tréville agreed. "I also think he is a desperate man now; he started something and he wants to see it through to the end. I believe that end is with my death. We know about him and it is only a matter of time until we apprehend him so he has to move fast. If he thought he had succeeded in his task this afternoon, then he might try to leave Paris but I think he will want to make sure."

"We could always make false report of your demise," Athos suggested. "If he has any inkling that you survived the attack on the street, we could make an announcement that you later submitted to infection or too much blood loss."

"Perhaps we should not tempt fate," Tréville said, raising an eyebrow.

"You had better not succumb anytime soon," Athos chided and was rewarded by a huff of amusement. He was warming to his idea though. "If he thought you were dead from reports, it might draw him out to attempt an escape."

"There is that, admittedly, but just suppose his apparent hatred for the regiment goes much deeper? We do not know, for instance, whether or not he still holds a grudge against you for foiling his attempt upon Buckingham's life. You could easily remain his next target."


	68. Chapter 68

_**Here we are again! Apologies for the much extended delay: two weeks' of concentrated birthday celebrations were swiftly followed by a manic two weeks at work, which is not going to ease up in the next month but I am on holiday right now for a week which gives me much needed writing time. I am trying to work on several simultaneous projects at present, including rewriting 'Macbeth' as a novel for some low ability students and I have a short deadline on that one as they approach the examination season!**_

 _ **We are heading towards the end of this one though. Savatier needs to be stopped!** _

CHAPTER 68

Athos pondered briefly on Tréville's words, reluctant to accept them but realising that there was a high probability that Savatier was determined to exact a revenge against him as he concluded his lengthy retribution against the musketeers.

"What do you remember of him?" Athos asked, leaning forward with the water jug to refill the cup Tréville held. He knew, even without looking, that the older man was watching him carefully, gauging his reaction.

"Enough, but you know where the military records are kept of all musketeers, past and present." He was making a veiled reference to the time, only months earlier, when Athos had temporarily served as acting Captain when Tréville had been manipulated by the King and his Cardinal into leaving Paris on what had initially been regarded as a straightforward mission. That the Captain of the King's élite guard had been instructed to be the one to lead the group was the first indicator that all was not as it should be and, whilst he implicitly trusted his monarch, he was thoroughly suspicious of Richelieu, given his history of devious machinations. Tréville had left, accompanied by a troop of six men and they had disappeared. Athos had fallen foul of the odious Delacroix who, with Richelieu's support and encouragement, had ousted him from command and replaced him. Resigning his commission and followed by his three brothers, along with a sizeable proportion of the regiment who remained loyal to him, the group had set about discovering what had happened to their Captain and comrades.

During his brief tenure as Captain though, Athos would have had access to the service records of all personnel as Tréville kept them in his office.

"I know where you had them when you appointed me as your temporary replacement but …" he began.

"They have not been moved," Tréville interrupted.

"But I did not read them, save for one," he continued and, when Tréville raised an eyebrow questioningly, he shook his head, "and no, it wasn't mine." The corner or his mouth twitched in humour. "I had a good idea as to what it probably said and, in the face of such an uncomfortable truth, I did not deem it necessary."

Tréville sighed. "I had made you my replacement in my absence. If your record were to be that bad, I doubt that I would have made such a decision, do you? Unless, of course, I experienced a momentary mental aberration but we both know how that arrangement concluded." He paused and waited for Athos to make a cutting comment but there was none forthcoming. Now was not the time to reopen the seemingly age-old debate on Athos' self-worth. "Was it my record?" he suddenly asked, a frown creasing his brow, not that there was anything in writing of which he was ashamed.

"No!" Athos hastily reassured him. "I would never be so presumptuous."

"Being presumptuous has nothing to do with it. As the Captain, however temporary, you had as much right to access those records as me. We had no idea that Savatier was alive so I do not think that you were reading about him." The rising intonation at the end of the statement implied a question.

Athos slumped in his seat. "If you must know, I was reading about Delacroix."

Tréville gave a low chuckle. "I should have guessed. I doubt that my notes on him helped you in any great way."

"On the contrary, it reaffirmed what I thought of him anyway." Both men shared a brief moment of humour at the heavily veiled comment. "Savatier?" Athos prompted.

"Feel free to retrieve the relevant volume," Tréville told him. "He came to the regiment with an exemplary record. A staunch Catholic, he was born in Paris but both his parents had died before I came to know him. There was a married younger sister. Now what was her name? Maria? Mathilde? No, Marianne; that was it. She was still living in the city and was to be notified in the event of her brother's death."

"Did you contact her whilst we were in La Rochelle?" Athos asked.

"Of course. I wrote all the relevant letters to the families of lost musketeers, advising them of personal effects to be claimed and, in the case of the few widows, details of the small pecuniary relief to which they were entitled. Once we returned to Paris, I had contact with all concerned, with the exception of Savatier's sister. I remember writing again to her, but there was still no response. Her address was in the record so I paid her a visit but I never saw her, only her husband and he did not seem to care about collecting anything that belonged to his brother-in-law. I offered to return with the belongings but," and here he paused to give a wry grin at the recollection, "he did suggest what I could do with Savatier's stuff and it was expressed in a very interesting way! I got the distinct impression that, for whatever reason, there was no love lost between the two men."

"And you never met the sister?"

"No. After all this time, I can't remember the finer points of his background. Go and get the record," he urged and, when Athos hesitated, he continued. "I shall be fine alone for a few minutes. When you return, you can read it aloud to me, refresh my memory."

Athos left him and headed to the office. He knew exactly where to find the service records in the tall, free-standing cupboard and swiftly found the requisite volume. Slipping back into the infirmary he was about to speak, announcing his return, when he saw that Tréville had fallen asleep, supported by the pillows. For the first time in a long while, the older man appeared at his ease, the worried lines relaxed. Athos had just settled back into his chair and was about to start reading about the regiment's former lieutenant when the door behind him opened. Turning quickly, he raised an index finger to his lips, signalling silence. Aramis nodded his understanding and moved a chair to beside his friend. He lowered himself onto it as if weary and then leaned closer to whisper so that there was no risk of his voice disturbing the sleeping man.

"I can relieve you if you want a break," he offered but Athos shook his head.

"I am fine," he assured him. "I have some reading matter and I would like to be here when Tréville awakens; we need to discuss Savatier. It will be light in a few hours and I need us to be in readiness to resume our hunt for him. It would be a good idea if we have some idea as to what to do first."

Aramis had not missed his friend's deliberate use of the word 'hunt' rather than 'search' and he could not suppress the chill that ran down his back at the prospect. Savatier had had a dire effect upon Athos and even their Captain back on Ré four years before and now, with the repeated attacks on musketeers culminating in the discovery that it was the work of a man they had all believed dead, he could not help but wonder what was really going on in Athos' mind beneath the usual veneer of calmness. His agitation in the immediate aftermath of the attack upon Tréville had subsided, to be replaced by a worrying composure and coolness that hinted at a measured obsession.

The pair chatted quietly for another half hour before Aramis took his leave, on the understanding that he would get some rest and then return before dawn to check on the well-being of his patient and insist that Athos grab some respite, albeit briefly.

Alone once more with the sleeping man, Athos moved the candles to enable him to read the volume he had retrieved from the office. Flicking through the thick pages and smiling at Tréville's familiar, spidery script, he found the pages assigned to Savatier and settled to read the entries.

It rapidly became clear that he was a very brave soldier who came highly recommended by his former commanders to the Musketeer regiment; one even went so far as to state that he was potential officer material. Athos was intrigued by the level of detail that Tréville included and, not for the first time, wondered exactly what had been written in his own pages and, also not for the first time, he dismissed the notion, fearful that much of it would be a damning indictment of his failures and shortcomings. He mentally berated himself for he knew that there was much that he had achieved in his service to King and country but he still suspected that, in the delicate scales of life's events, his negative contributions continued to skew the balance and vastly outweigh the positive.

He refocused his mind once more on his reading. Savatier had gained his commission into the King's regiment in early 1623, several months after the inauguration of the Musketeers, was seldom sick, had received the occasional wound and never requested a leave of absence. The account was very factual and Athos began to wish that Tréville would awaken, eager to question the injured man for he believed that there was far more that was left unsaid about the record. There was the entry that gave his promotion to the rank of lieutenant in late May of 1625; that was after Savoy when Corbières, the officer at the time, had been slain along with nineteen other men on the fated training exercise. That was when Aramis had come so close to being lost; when Athos and Porthos had patiently nursed him back to health from a debilitating head injury, sat with him when the demons wrecked his sleep and tried to offer reasoned explanations as to what had happened to his friend, Marsac. Marsac! Now there was another man who had returned from the dead to wreak untold havoc, with Aramis once more becoming his unwitting victim and challenging his loyalty to his friends and Tréville.

There was a time when the dead stayed dead but now they were resurrected in the most unexpected circumstances: Marsac, Savatier and – here Athos bowed his head at the comparison and closed his eyes – his wife! Each had re-emerged to unleash unspeakable horrors and he could not help but wonder when it would end.

"Unpleasant thoughts?" a hoarse voice sounded from the bed. Tréville was awake at last, his blue eyes alert and fixed upon the younger man.

"I was reading about Savatier," Athos said, obviously avoiding the comment. "I had just reached the point where you promoted him but I cannot help but think that there is more here than you have written. I have my own memories of him as the lieutenant - and they are definitely unpleasant - but you were the one who worked more closely with him. What can you add?"

Tréville thought carefully before expounding upon the written record. "He was not my first choice of a replacement for Corbières." He knew from the expression on Athos' face that his announcement had been unexpected. "I had offered the position to Claude but he turned me down flat. In fact," and he smiled at the memory, "his refusal was couched in colourful terms that left me in no doubt as to his reaction to the offer and that he desired nothing more than to remain amongst the men." The smile faded as mention of the seasoned soldier brought back the image of his untimely demise only months earlier amongst the ruins of the besieged fortified manor. So much had happened in so short a time, all of it putting the regiment at risk!

Athos saw the change in the older man's face and felt a stab of panic as he feared Tréville would descend again into the despair that had been all-consuming in recent days.

"So you offered it to Savatier?" he urged.

To his relief, Tréville promptly snapped out of his reverie as he sought to justify his decision. "On paper, he was the best and most experienced at the time. He kept himself to himself and I never knew of him socialising with others; you ought to be able to corroborate that." Athos nodded his agreement. "He never spoke to me of his family after he gave me details of his sister here in Paris. If I recall correctly, I had to press him for that information and the one time I asked if he had seen his sister, he gave me short shrift by way of reply – I never asked again. He did not appear to have any interests beyond the garrison and I certainly never knew of him having relationships with any women. He was, to all intents and purposes, a very private man – much like you in that respect. No, all I needed was a good soldier, reliable and no trouble. He was all of that."

"That is much as I remember him," Athos concurred. "He was a strict officer who pushed us hard in training."

"He was very competent in training you men and I cannot fault his efficiency in his role as my lieutenant. He was reliable; I had no complaints about his performance in two years and yet I never found him friendly. He would abjure any informal conversation if he could help it."

"Then we left for La Rochelle," Athos murmured.

"And it all suddenly changed," Tréville continued. "In the last few weeks before we left, he became uncharacteristically irascible."

"He certainly had no time for Porthos, Aramis or me," Athos admitted.

Tréville quirked an amused eyebrow. "He took a dim view of your duelling and thought I was too soft on your escapades. At that time, we were at odds over the three of you. I always argued that if I were guilty of the charge of leniency, it was because the three of you produced the results on many other occasions."

"I am sorry that our … recklessness … caused tension between you."

Tréville shugged and immediately winced as pain lanced through his shoulder with the move. "I felt initially that it added a little 'interest' to our working relationship. I confess that the more he seemed to take against you, the more I delighted in taking the opposite view but," he hastened to add, "it was never to the extent of condoning your behaviour without question."

"So something happened to affect his behaviour and attitude?" Athos asked.

"Absolutely. Perhaps that was the time when he received his instructions."

"He was not very good at subterfuge if he allowed his mood to alter significantly and so noticeably; it could have raise alarms."

"But it didn't, did it?" Tréville pointed out. "It raised no alarms with me and I was working closely with the man."

"But we were preparing for our departure to La Rochelle; we were expecting to engage with an enemy at some point. We are all excused failing to notice the difference in him. Besides, such a tense period of preparation could account for such a change in his behaviour," Athos explained.

"Could it? He was a seasoned soldier, used to the pressures of the battle field; it should not have wrought such an alteration in him."

"Is it possible that he was pressured into complying with the instructions?"

Tréville contemplated the suggestion. "Anything is possible but we will never know. It would be comforting to think there was such a plausible explanation for his subsequent actions but I think that is too easy, especially given the circumstances surrounding his return to the Citadel and the recent attacks in Paris. I dread to think what we are dealing with here or what could have possessed a man to do what he has done."

Together, they sat through the night and deliberated the minutiae of Savatier's actions throughout their time on Ré and what they should prioritise with the new day until Tréville could remain awake no longer and quietly drifted off to sleep once more and, not wanting to disturb the recuperating man again, Athos was left alone with his thoughts.

The logical conclusion they had drawn was that Savatier had been approached by agents acting for a master – the two musketeers still suspected Richelieu's involvement at that point but no proof existed – and they had gained his commitment to assassination plans. Given his fervour and loyalty at the time to France, it would not have taken much to convince him that Buckingham was a dangerous annoyance and, being an unwavering Catholic, he would not have wanted any assistance made available to the Protestant cause. Anyone who sided with the Huguenots was an enemy to King, country and the Church of Rome. It had to have been a tentative agreement and that Savatier would have been one of several trusted men to move against the Englishman for there was no guarantee that any of them would cross the path of the Duke. Opportunity would be seized as, when and if it ever arose.

When Toiras decided to send Savatier and Athos with the letter to the English camp, the lieutenant saw his chance. He must have realised that he was unlikely to survive the attempt. If he had killed Buckingham, he could not have escaped and Athos would have probably perished with him as an accessory after the fact. His strong denial would never have been believed by the English. It was Tréville who made Athos realise that by throwing himself at Savatier and thereby halting the attack, he had probably saved his own life, disassociating himself from the assassination attempt, which was further confirmed by Savatier's claim to Buckingham that he had been working alone.

At the time, Athos had suspected that the torture to which Savatier had been subjected had unhinged the man. It was the only acceptable explanation as to why he had gone on to do what he had done. Once released by Buckingham, perhaps he had been found on Ré by Huguenots who had tended him and restored him to full health. Had he thrown in his lot with them before infiltrating the Citadel amongst the Catholic women forced there by Buckingham? Was it revenge for his thwarted attempt on the Duke? If so, Athos must undoubtedly be high on his list of enemies and then, by association, Tréville and the rest of the musketeers. A broken man physically and mentally, did Savatier see Louis, France and the musketeers as having betrayed him? It was what Athos and Tréville had suspected at the time and they now saw no reason to alter that view. Why did he remain in the company of known Huguenots though? Had he experienced a change in belief and doctrine as a result of being helped by them or was he by now so hard-hearted that he was merely using them, convincing them with his knowledge that they could launch a violent campaign against the King's élite force and consequently against the monarch himself, when all he really wanted to do was serve his own desire for retribution?

It was all plausible as Athos mulled it over in his head so that he was not even aware of his own exhaustion and heavy eyes closing. It was daylight when he started awake to the sound of muted conversation near him. Aramis had been checking Tréville's wound and changing the dressing.

"You did not wake me," Athos said in mild rebuke.

"No, because I told him not to," Tréville reasoned. "You were in just as much need of sleep in preparation for today as anyone else. Now eat the food that he has brought," and he inclined his head in the direction of the table laden with food and watered ale. It seemed an excessive amount.

"I do not think I am _that_ hungry," Athos said wrily.

Aramis cast him a withering look as he finished tying off the new bandage around Tréville's shoulder. "That is for all of us. I take it that the pair of you have spent part of the night deciding upon our next steps in the search for Savatier. Porthos and d'Artagnan will be joining us shortly as we determine the order of the day. They have been detained by a messenger arriving at the garrison gates."

He had hardly had time to straighten from where he had been bending over the injured man when the door to the infirmary burst open to admit Porthos and d'Artagnan. If Aramis had contemplated delivering a witticism on their entry, it died on his lips when he saw their expressions. D'Artagnan had turned pale whilst Porthos was fuelled by anger.

"All hell's breaking loose out there. The alarms have been raised," he growled.

"Why? What is it? What's happened?" Athos demanded, leaping to his feet, all semblance of weariness forgotten.

"Those men we released yesterday after talking to them? They are all dead, murdered overnight," d'Artagnan announced.


	69. Chapter 69

**_A swift, short chapter and apologies in advance as I have let any errors slip through as I have not been as thorough as I might have been in my proof-reading. So lovely to hear from so many of you in the last twenty-four hours; special thanks to the 'guest' reviewers as I am notable to contact you separately. I have begun to message the rest of you and will complete that tomorrow. In the meantime, heartfelt and grateful thanks to all of you who have read the latest chapter and even warmer thanks to those of you who continue to comment and encourage me._**

 ** _The search for Savatier continues!_**

CHAPTER 69

I

"All of them?" Aramis was not sure he had heard correctly.

"All of them," Porthos confirmed.

"We let nine go," Athos reminded him.

"Yes, and all nine are now dead, including the two religious leaders," d'Artagnan said.

"How?" This came from Tréville.

"The messenger did not have the specific details of each but it seems the person responsible used a variety of means. The attacks were on the street and within the men's homes," d'Artagnan continued.

"All within the space of a few hours," Porthos added. "As the alarm was being raised on the first, he had to be about the murdering of the others."

Athos went cold. "You mean Savatier."

"Had to be," Porthos declared. "We picked up every one of those men yesterday to ask them questions about Savatier. 'E was hidin' out in that building' across the way, givin' him the opportunity to shoot the Captain when we rode out. He was probably watchin' from there for a lot longer, saw us bring 'em in most likely or when we let 'em go. That's the one thing that links 'em all together and so he decided to dispose of 'em all."

Colour had drained from Tréville's face at the news. "He has to be mad!"

"Why silence them when we have already interviewed them?" d'Artagnan wanted to know.

"Who knows how his mind is working now? He is not to know whether or not they have given us any information. They might have been unco-operative so he cannot take the risk that we might speak to them again and they will give in to pressure," Tréville answered, the anger evident in his voice. "Other than that, he may have decided to mete out punishment whether they spoke or not. They were in our company and pose another threat of betrayal. He is exacting retribution for any perceived slight."

Tréville sat up straighter, ignoring the pull on his wounded shoulder. "I may not have sympathy for any Huguenot cause but these men did not deserve this. We chose them and, for a couple of them at least, the information we were using to pull them in for questioning was tenuous."

"The King will not be pleased when he hears of this," d'Artagnan said sadly. Porthos scowled at the realisation.

"That is why he must be stopped, gentlemen, at all costs. We must question his hold on sanity for we cannot comprehend what drives him to behave thus but his actions have become relentless, desperate, increasingly violent and totally without remorse. For the sake of the regiment and the people of Paris, we must find him and quickly," Tréville concluded.

"Agreed, so what do we do first?" Aramis asked.

Tréville and Athos looked at each other. This latest news would undoubtedly impact upon their plans made during the night hours. Athos deferred to the older man to speak but Tréville, sinking back wearily onto his pillows, gestured to him to continue.

Athos made a decision. "d'Artagnan, take a group of men and go around to each of the murder scenes, ask questions and find out what you can. Get back to us quickly. Porthos, select six men and accompany me to the palace. I want Rochefort to supply us with men as a matter of urgency. I would have sent a message but His Majesty needs to be apprised of the latest developments and that is something that needs to be done in person."

Tréville made to interrupt but Athos glanced at him. "I shall take that responsibility. As soon as Rochefort's men arrive and we see how many men he has deigned to loan us or who can still remember Savatier, we can deploy them accordingly. The first thing a group of them can do is return the two prisoners to the Chatelet. Savatier is not interested in the Red Guard so they are able to move about in smaller patrols. Some of them can be stationed at the city gates to ensure that he does not attempt to leave the city which frees us up for other lines of investigation. We will keep the three here who were in league with Savatier to question them further as the day progresses." He broke off to smile at Porthos but there was no warmth in his green eyes. "Perhaps it is about time to apply a little pressure to them."

"I will quite 'appily apply a little pressure if need be," Porthos complied.

"I thought you might say that," Athos added. "We will revisit the Huguenot cells, start house to house searches and," here he glanced towards Tréville again, "we will pay a visit to Savatier's sister to see if she still lives in the same house and if she has any knowledge of her brother."

Raised voices from his brothers registered their surprise at this new piece of information and he quickly explained what Tréville had told him.

"Come back to the garrison when you have seen Louis and collect me; I want to see his sister," Tréville announced.

Aramis immediately objected.

"You can give me something for pain relief and put my arm in a sling but whilst we are involved in this man hunt, I refuse to remain in this bed," the older man insisted.

There was no dissuading him, especially when he forced himself to push up from the pillows again, swung his legs round over the side of the bed, breathed deeply to steady himself and glared defiantly at the young men with him.

"Athos, muster the men and I will brief them," he instructed.

"There is no need for you to …" Athos began.

"There is every need," Tréville cut across him. "I know I am no longer Captain of this regiment, even though you all continue to refer to me as such and look to me for direction. With that in mind, I need to see the men and be seen by them, to reassure them that I am well and to prove that this is an attack upon the regiment that, on this occasion, has not been successful."

Athos said nothing more but dipped his head in acknowledgement and left the room to summon the soldiers.

"Do not push yourself too far too soon," Aramis admonished. "You had a lucky escape yesterday."

"Yes, it could have been a lot worse; I could have been dead," Tréville said scathingly as he reached for his boots and began pulling them on one-handed.

"You know what I mean," Aramis gently scolded as he began to mix a draught to kill the pain and watched as Tréville downed it in one. "Today will not be an easy day for many reasons. I appreciate what you are saying but you must take care."

II

The morning muster was brief but effective with the remaining men of the regiment relieved to see their former Captain up and on his feet, his authority a reassurance, even if he were sporting a sling that supported his injured shoulder. Roles were rapidly assigned and the regiment sprang into action.

Athos' audience with the King was short and traumatic as the unpredictable monarch lost his temper and raged at the news of the latest multiple murders. Even Rochefort appeared to look sympathetic rather than jubilant as Athos bore the brunt of Louis' ire but at least he did comply with the order to supply soldiers who remembered Savatier so that Athos returned to the garrison with an additional twenty-five men. With d'Artagnan out with some of the men investigating the overnight deaths and Porthos preparing to interrogate the prisoners, Athos, Tréville and Aramis rapidly rearranged the deployment of musketeers and Red Guard. As they were divided into groups comprising men from both regiments, it was important to ensure that at least two or three of them recalled Savatier.

Tréville stood, flanked by Athos and Aramis as they watched the hustle and bustle in a satisfied silence. Initial concerns that the Red Guard might make light of the serious situation and fuel bad feeling at a time when Musketeer tensions were already high did not come to the fore. Instead, they stood and listened respectfully to Tréville's explanation as to why they were hunting Savatier and nodded their acknowledgement to the tasks they were given and the men with whom they were joined. It was as if an unspoken brotherhood had suddenly emerged between the two regiments in the face of such onslaught from one who had been a brother-in-arms; those who remembered him were the older, more seasoned soldiers and their tacit acceptance of the task instinctively laid to rest any burgeoning unease in the younger musketeers who, like d'Artagnan, had earned their commissions in the years since La Rochelle.

Tréville had had qualms about their observance of his leadership; after all, it was common knowledge that he had lost the captaincy and, seemingly, the trust of the King. However, there was no resistance, no challenge to his orders, even though he sensed Athos stiffen beside him in readiness for any opposition. The men of the Red Guard were compliant, though, as if being away from their colleagues and the leadership of Rochefort gave them a new and unexpected sense of responsibility. Could this be the first tentative step in forging a new and better relationship between the Musketeers and Red Guard? Although he would never class himself as a cynic, Tréville preferred to think of himself as a realist and he was prepared to accept that this was only a brief respite from the usual animosity that bubbled away between the two regiments but, for now, he was happy to take anything that came his way if it were to ensure a swift culmination in apprehending Savatier.

Red Guard rode out of the yard alongside Musketeers as they headed to the city gates to watch for the wanted man. With d'Artagnan and his team long gone in their investigation, Porthos and five other men had been charged with questioning the three colleagues of Savatier whilst eight Red Guard were instructed to escort the two newly-released prisoners back to the Chatelet before joining others to repeat a house to house search in the streets in the immediate vicinity of the garrison, just in case Savatier had risked remaining in the area to keep the musketeers under surveillance.

At last, the yard was nearly empty except for those who were to maintain a guard upon the garrison. Others who were to accompany Tréville, Athos and Aramis were already mounted, some of them holding the reins to three horses. Serge and another man stepped forward with a mounting block and positioned it beside Tréville's feisty stallion. As frustrated as he found it, he appreciated the gesture as he knew he could not haul himself into the saddle with one hand. Aramis kept a vigilant but respectful distance until Tréville was comfortably settled in his saddle. With a nod to Athos to indicate that he was ready, he led the patrol out through the archway and into the Paris street, the sudden stab of apprehension that spread through him an understandable reaction to the memory of what had happened when he rode the same way the day before.

Their journey passed without incident as they crossed the river to the west bank and threaded their way through the narrower streets to the sector where Savatier's sister, Marianne Gaultier was known to have been living with her husband. It had been four years since Tréville had last taken that route and yet little had changed and he recognised it as clearly as if he had travelled the same road in the past few days. His mind began to wander as he rode. Did the couple still live in the house? It was feasible that they had moved away in the intervening years. If they were still there, had they had any contact with Savatier? Were they helping him in any way?

Leading the group of Musketeers, he had just turned the corner into the road where the couple's house stood when he reined in and the men behind him had to do likewise very sharply to avoid a collision of mounts. Their way was blocked by a number of citizens gathered outside the doorway of a narrow, two-storey dwelling. The people craned their necks, passing comment on what they were hearing, their faces a picture of consternation except that none of them was taking any acting.

Sliding from his horse in an ungainly dismount, his abrupt landing sent a jarring through his shoulder but Tréville ignored it. Dropping the horse's reins, he strode up to the throng, easing them aside with a push of his hands as he, too, became aware of a furore emanating from the building, the one he had been on his way to visit. There was the unmistakable sound of voices raised in anger, a crashing of furniture and then came a high-pitched, terrified scream. The door was wrenched open and a woman stumbled out into the street, falling into the dust at Tréville's feet even as the curious bystanders took several steps backward to distance themselves from her and whatever crisis was unfolding behind her.

Crouching, Tréville helped her up with his good hand. Strands of dark hair had worked loose from where she had tied it back. Tears streaked her face even as a bruise began to darken the skin around her right eye and blood trickled from her nose.

"Madame Gaultier?" Tréville asked, his brow creased in worry.

"Stop him; he's trying to kill him," she begged, grabbing the lapels of his doublet.

"Who, Madame? Of whom do you speak?"

"Albert, he's trying to kill Albert," she wept.

"Her 'usband," a woman in the crowd called out in an attempt to be helpful.

Tréville was conscious of a figure moving past him and towards the half open door.

"Who, Madame? Who is doing the killing?" Tréville knew that he held her arm very tightly and that he gave her a slight shake as he anticipated her answer.

"My brother!" and she wailed more loudly.

"Athos, wait!" Aramis shouted.

But his warning came too late. Even as he and the men around him swung down from their horses' backs and drew either pistols or swords, Athos kicked open the door and disappeared into the darkness within.


	70. Chapter 70

**_Well, I'd apologised in advance for the typos I might have let slip through in the last chapter but I have to commend you all for not commenting on the wonderful faux pas I did in the last chapter so I had to edit it and upload it again! As brilliant as Porthos is, he is unfortunately incapable of being in two places at the same time!_**

 ** _I am working on the notion that there are probably three more chapters to go but then this one has not ended where and how I had planned! I like the planning and then the characters (Athos and Porthos in this instance) take over, say what I did not know they were going to say or do something unexpected! I am not looking for any more surprises, boys!_**

 ** _So, third chapter in four days but I do have to warn you that I'm travelling home tomorrow and back at work Monday so there will not be an update until the end of the week at the earliest._**

 ** _Thank you all SO much for all the feedback and PMs over the past few days which have been phenomenal. For those of you that I cannot contact individually, I really do appreciate your comments._**

CHAPTER 70

I

Savatier was in the process of literally throttling his brother-in-law. He had Albert Gaultier hard against the back wall of the ground-floor room, his hands clasped about the man's throat. Taller than his sister's husband, his grip meant that Gaultier's feet were barely touching the floor. The shorter man teetered on tip-toe, the strangle hold the only thing that was keeping him upright as his face turned puce, his eyes bulged and his hands tore at those which were squeezing the breath out of him.

Athos launched himself across the room with a deafening shout, his body slamming into that of Savatier, the suddenness and surprise causing the former musketeer lieutenant to release his death grip as he and his own assailant crashed to the floor and rolled amidst the debris of broken furniture. They came to an abrupt, bone-jarring halt against the hearth. With Savatier momentarily stunned, Athos took the initiative and scrabbled for superiority, straddling the older man and trying to grab and restrain the flailing arms.

"You!" Savatier spat out as he realised who his attacker was and successfully threw a wild, angry punch at Athos' face. The younger man's head snapped back at the impact and he tasted blood from a split lip. Blood! It represented all that had been shed from the innocents over the past weeks and now the perpetrator had been caught and was struggling beneath him, desperate to escape. Athos would not, could not let that happen.

Green eyes flashed with an overwhelming and undisguised fury as he recovered himself, clutched at the open neck of the man's shirt and landed a hefty return punch to Savatier's jaw, noting with grim satisfaction that the back of the man's head hit the floor with the force of the contact. The second and third blows were equally heavy and Savatier hung limply from his grasp, groaning loudly. As his arm went back, his fist clenched to deliver another crippling punch, a strong hand grabbed his wrist and two more arms enfolded him and began to drag him backwards even as he struggled to break free and continue meting out his bitter punishment.

"Enough!" a voice ordered in his ear. Tréville.

"Stop it, Athos," another voice said as he let go of Savatier and fell backwards across the man who had spoken. It was Aramis who grunted loudly when Athos landed on him. As he rolled off his friend, his eyes keenly studied Savatier, watching carefully as the man was hauled to his feet by musketeers, his hands bound behind him and another rope tied around his ankles, giving him leave to shuffle as he was pushed at rapier point towards the door. All the while, he cursed loudly at his capture and let forth a string of insults roundly directed at both Tréville and Athos. Scrambling to his feet with frightening speed, Athos made as if to renew the fray but as Tréville extended his good hand to intercept him, his shoulders slumped as though the fight had rapidly drained out of him.

"Don't do anything stupid; he's not worth it," Tréville warned softly so that no-one else could hear. He held Athos fast with an iron grip on his forearm.

"Still close I see," Savatier taunted as he was dragged through the open doorway. "Some things never change."

Whilst musketeers took him from the house, his sobbing sister stood just inside the room and watched him dragged away before looking to where her husband lay on the floor, curled in a ball as helpless coughing wracked his frame and he sucked in great gasps of air. It was not lost on the remaining musketeers that she made no move to help him.

Tréville caught Aramis' eye and indicated to Gaultier. With a nod of understanding, Aramis moved to check out the man's injuries and began making quiet inquiries as to the marks on Marianne Gaultier's face.

II

Once the situation at the Gaultier residence was under control, Savatier was immediately incarcerated in the Chatelet to await trial and Tréville left instructions and coin enough for him to be fed and guarded well to ensure that nothing accidentally befell him that might prevent him from seeing the inside of a courtroom. From there, he dismissed the accompanying musketeers, releasing them to return to the garrison in a gesture that they could now move around the city with renewed freedom. He turned his mount towards the palace with Athos and Aramis riding close behind as the trio went to deliver the good news to the King.

They were admitted into Louis' presence without delay and he clapped his hands in childish delight when he received the news of Savatier's arrest, exclaiming excitedly that he could not wait for the trial to be held, not that its outcome could be in any doubt. There was no way that Savatier could evade his appointment with the hangman's noose.

Rochefort's erstwhile support and sympathy were short-lived as he wrinkled his nose with disgust. "It is unfortunate, however, that it has taken so long to apprehend the man for he has left a trail of corpses, damage and chaos in his wake."

"But we _have_ apprehended him," Tréville repeated caustically.

"That's as maybe, but it wasn't until you had a large number of my Red Guard to help you."

Tréville bit back a less than generous retort at the smug expression on the other man's face, reminding himself that he was in the company of the King.

Athos had no such reservations and took a step forward, his face a mask of apparent indifference. "Your Red Guard rendered assistance in the search, I agree, but as I recall, none was present at the Gaultier house when we found him."

Rochefort gaped like a landed fish, unable to think of a rejoinder swiftly enough as Aramis smothered a grin.

"Enough, gentlemen," Louis admonished, his good mood not to be deflated by any undercurrent of bickering. "We are to rejoice that the man has been caught. I dislike disruption and uncertainty but now everything can return to normal. Can't it, Tréville, eh?" and the King swept from the room as the four remaining men bowed low.

Rochefort was the first to straighten and he sneered at the musketeers. "Not quite back to normal though, is it, Tréville? His Majesty's élite guard lurches from crisis to crisis and may have survived its latest one, but it's still without a captain. Whatever is to become of the regiment now, eh?" and, having delivered his well-aimed barb, he strode from the room.

"Just as well he's gone," Aramis observed unnecessarily, letting out the breath that he did not even realise that he had been holding for he was concentrating on the tension that he sensed was rolling off Athos in waves, but he was relieved that his brother managed to exercise some restraint. It would not do to brawl in the King's audience chamber. He cast a surreptitious glance towards Tréville to see how the man had responded to the deliberate slight that was directed at him. From the grim set of Tréville's mouth, he was angry, exceedingly angry.

"One day …," he mumbled as he turned on his heel and marched away from them. Athos and Aramis were following when they heard him say more loudly, "One day I will deal with you, Rochefort."

On arriving back at the garrison, moves were afoot, for the families that had been temporarily housed there for safety were already packing up the few belongings they had brought with them with the intention of going back to their homes before nightfall.

D'Artagnan was yet to materialise but Porthos was waiting for them, sitting in the sunshine at the usual table at the bottom of the stairs that led to the office. Seeing the three men ride through the archway and into the yard after their visit to the palace, musketeers moved unbidden to relieve them of their horses once they had dismounted. Porthos gestured to the jug of ale and the spare pewter cups lined up in front of him and smiled a greeting as they lowered themselves onto the benches and started pouring the ale.

He listened to them eagerly as they related what had happened with Savatier for he had only received a limited explanation from the musketeers who had been sent back to the garrison ahead of Tréville and the two men with him.

"You seem pleased with yourself," Athos noted before slaking his thirst.

"I have had a profitable time since word arrived that you had got Savatier. His three friends had been holdin' out and were very unco-operative but once I told them that he had been caught, one of 'em – Pelletier - opened up, started to talk and didn't sound as if he was goin' to stop. He didn't even need any persuadin'," Porthos looked disappointed.

"So what did he have to say for himself?" Tréville wanted to know.

"He told me when they first met Savatier. He was pulled, half-drowned, from the sea off Ré and taken to the home of Desmarais, where they looked after him. They did not care at that stage who he was or where he'd come from; all they saw was a human bein' in need, even though everythin' about him was suspicious. He stayed in Saint Martin with them and hid in a large space under the floorboards at the end of the siege as we rounded up anyone known to have been anti-Catholic. It was obvious we'd recognise 'im. After we left and the La Rochelle siege intensified, the harsh treatment of Huguenot sympathisers got worse and Pelletier's brother was killed. All four of 'em headed for the mainland and went into hidin' and all the while Huguenot feeling was buildin' once again. They were plannin', looking for opportunities to strike an' Savatier had spun 'em some tale about the Musketeers bein' personally responsible for everythin' that had happened to 'em."

Now they knew what had happened to Savatier since plunging into the sea off the rocks by the Citadel on the Île de Ré and some idea what he had been doing in the intervening years.

"Did he admit anything about his or the others' involvement in the attacks upon the regiment?" Athos asked abruptly.

"Not as yet," Porthos said lightly, "but I'll go back an' lean on 'im a bit more; it's only a matter of time."

He paused and watched as Athos reached for the ale jug and thought that it was a good thing that Serge watered the ale for the men in the garrison.

"So Savatier 'ad been stayin' with 'is sister then?" Porthos asked, reaching for the jug as soon as Athos put it down and refilling his own cup.

Aramis shook his head and took up the story for he had talked with Marianne as he bathed her face once it was clear that her husband would recover. "He had not been staying with the Gaultiers and when he had met with his sister, it was rarely at the house because he didn't get on with his brother-in-law. We thought Savatier had turned against her and had attacked her before he set about Gaultier but it turns out he was defending her. Her husband was a bully and mistreated her for years and although she had spent all her time trying to keep the men apart, it appears that, with his current state of aggressiveness, Savatier was not going to ignore it any longer."

"There is a certain irony in the fact that Savatier was caught having succumbed to a last gesture of loving concern for his sister," Athos said, devoid of any emotion as he raised his cup to his lips and emptied it.

The sound of horses' hooves clattering through the archway heralded the arrival at last of d'Artagnan. He slid from the saddle and nodded his appreciation when the man next to him took up the reins, leaving him free to converse with the others. Serge appeared with a fresh ale jug but, just as quickly, sank back into the domain that was his kitchen.

"What news?" Tréville prompted.

"Reports of the bodies being found started coming in from just before midnight. Four of the men were attacked in the streets where they walked; two were clubbed about the head from behind whilst the other two were stabbed in the back. All of the their bodies were dragged into side alleys but no serious attempt had been made to conceal them. It was as if Savatier was more intent on achieving what he wanted with speed rather than stealth. He gained entry to the homes of the remaining men, shooting two at close range and slitting the throats of the other three," d'Artagnan reported.

Porthos let out a low whistle. "He was on a determined killing spree."

"What evidence is there to link Savatier with these deaths?" Athos demanded. "There has to be some way of making him accountable."

"We have undisputed evidence for one of them at the very least," d'Artagnan continued. "He gained access to one of the properties and had just shot the owner, Benoir, when his wife appeared in the doorway. She screamed, he used another pistol to shoot her but was none too careful as he was more intent on getting away. Neighbours were roused by the noise and found her still alive; she identified Savatier with her dying breath."

"Another innocent victim," Athos ground out between clenched teeth. He had been darkly brooding ever since they had returned to the garrison, if not before and Aramis was worried, for he had expected his mood to be lighter with relief.

"We have a clear identification of him being responsible for the deaths of the couple and as Benoir was one of nine interviewed here yesterday and every single one of them has been murdered in the same night, surely that is enough to condemn him?" d'Artagnan reasoned.

Athos drained another cup of ale and slammed the empty vessel down onto the table top. "Apart from the report from the Gaultier neighbours, what actual proof have we got for the rest of this?" He leaped to his feet and looked down at the seated men. "Twenty-three people dead and without an actual confession from Savatier or the three men we continue to hold, how do we make any court understand what has gone on here? All we have is a repeated symbol that shows up around dead musketeers and a fanciful story that harks back to an island siege of 1627." He glared down at Tréville and Aramis. "You should not have stopped me. You should have let me kill him when I had the chance."

As his bitter words fell on the silent men, he threw up his hands in frustration and disgust and walked swiftly to the gateway that led out onto the Paris street.

D'Artagnan glanced round at the men who sat with him. "Tell me he's not right. Tell me that we can prove Savatier is behind this even if he doesn't confess."

"As long as Louis does not demand seeing Savatier in court in the next two days, we can build a damning and convincing case against him. We will continue to hold the three here and keep working on them. They need to be open with their roles in the attacks and be persuaded to condemn Savatier with their own accounts," Tréville said with a sigh. "I will go to the King again tomorrow to find out what time he is prepared to allow us and what negotiating power he will assign to me. If we can offer one or more of them exemption from the hangman's rope, it might be the inducement they need to tell us anything relevant."

"And Athos?" d'Artagnan wondered.

Porthos pushed himself to his feet as he eyed the direction in which Athos had disappeared.

"He's been broodin' for a while now with everythin' that's been happenin'. In truth, I'm surprised 'e hasn't snapped before this. I'll go after 'im, make sure he's safe and just be around to bring 'im back when he's good an' drunk."


	71. Chapter 71

_**Dear all, a brief chapter but it gets things going again. I am so sorry; I never envisaged things taking this long but four weeks of exam marking was then followed by illness. Still not right after a week but I am just wanting to get to the end of term now! Had basic marking to catch up on but absence has increased that so I feel like I am back at square one!**_

 _ **Never mind. The musketeers start to build the case against Savatier!**_

CHAPTER 71

Early the next morning, Aramis was already seated in his usual place at the table near the base of the stairs that led up to the office. Before him lay an array of baskets and platters as he did not expect to break his fast alone. In a celebratory mood, Serge had been generous with cold meats, cheese, fruit and freshly baked bread, its gentle aroma tempting him to cut his second, thick slice and slather it with a generous helping of butter before topping it with a slab of milk-white, creamy cheese. Taking a large bite, he gave a satisfied moan of contentment and temporarily closed his eyes, savouring the explosion of tastes in his mouth.

It promised to be a fine day and he already felt the warmth of the sun on his skin as he tilted his face up towards the sky. Brought back to reality by the sounds of fellow musketeers crossing the yard to the small refectory, he nodded a greeting and was hailed in return by hearty calls and wide grins. The newly positive mood was infectious. Savatier was imprisoned and, even for a short time, all was right with the world.

The murderer would be brought to justice and appropriately punished; Aramis held no doubts about that. He could appreciate Athos' concerns expressed so bluntly the day before but that was in the immediate aftermath of an extremely traumatic period in the regiment's history. It had come under violent attack from one of its own for although Savatier had long since given up his role as a musketeer and was believed dead, it was hard for the men to accept that one of the King's élite could turn traitor in such a devastating way.

The yard still bore the evidence of the fatal fire but from the ashes, as the phoenix was reborn, so the stables were being rebuilt. Some of the men had rudimentary carpentry skills enough to work on the basic structure and what they lacked in knowledge, they more than made up for in willingness, strength and effort. It would be a slow process but there would be a sense of achievement at the end; a visual defiance that Savatier could do his worst but it would not bring down the musketeers.

The cemetery had too many fresh graves and markers but that would only fuel their determination to return to routine and duty, their fallen brothers never forgotten in the wake of the attacks.

Aramis would not be swayed by Athos' pessimism. He firmly believed that a case could be put together, justice would prevail and Savatier would swing. Athos needed to be convinced of that; he was just worried for all, as was his usual wont, and once again suffered an irrational guilt that Savatier had survived to cause catastrophic mayhem because of a failure on his part. He should not blame himself for what had transpired and the marksman would strive to make him see sense.

Aramis reached for the bread again, wondering how Athos was feeling on this bright morning, when d'Artagnan strode towards him, stretching and flexing his muscles as he moved.

"This is a fine feast," he observed, climbing over the bench and sitting as his hand closed on a green-skinned apple. He held it in his teeth as he hacked at the bread with a knife, drawing a disapproving frown from Aramis who took it back and demonstrated how to cut a neat slice.

"Serge has surpassed himself this morning," Aramis acknowledged, handing his young friend the bread.

D'Artagnan nodded his thanks and wrapped the slice around a hunk of cheese.

"Seen anything of Porthos and Athos yet?" he asked, opening his mouth wide to bite into the ungainly parcel of food.

"Not since they got back last night."

D'Artagnan's eyes widened. "You saw them? Why didn't you call me?"

"There was no need. It was not a late night. Athos had rapidly drunk himself into an insensible state and they were back before eleven. Porthos had him slung over his shoulder. I went with them to Athos' room but Porthos sent me away again; he had everything under control."

They both looked towards the gate at the sound of hooves; Tréville rode in accompanied by two other musketeers. He swung down from the saddle, watched as the mount was led away and approached the table where Aramis and d'Artagnan rose as one.

Aramis gestured to an empty place. "Join us."

Pulling off his gloves, Tréville nodded and sat down, eyeing the fare appreciatively. "I would hate to deprive you of your portion of breakfast."

Aramis laughed lightly as he pushed a plate and cup of ale towards the older man. "I have no doubt that Serge would bring more but I do think there is more than enough for Porthos. You could eat Athos' share; I do not think he will be much interested in food when he eventually appears."

Tréville raised an eyebrow. "Like that, eh?"

D'Artagnan sniggered. "Aramis was just telling me that he saw them last night; Porthos had to carry Athos home."

"It's been a while since that last happened," the former Captain observed ruefully.

"You have been out early," Aramis said, deliberately changing the subject for he was only too familiar with the troughs and peaks of his friend's drinking habits, and was inwardly praying that they were not about to witness another period where Athos plunged into a mood so dark, that his only solace seemed to be the oblivion offered by the bottom of a wine bottle – or several.

"I have had an audience with the King, believe it or not. He was up and about and in a favourable frame of mind, determined to celebrate with an impromptu hunt which has thrown even Rochefort into mild disorder," Tréville explained, taking a huge slice of cold beef and laying it carefully on his plate.

"I'd like to have seen that," d'Artagnan grinned.

"I have to admit that it gave me a moment of irrational pleasure," Tréville admitted. "Since the Red Guard will be in attendance still, I can't help but worry about how effective they will be, running to keep up."

There was a pause as each man savoured the comic image of flustered, out of breath Red Guard at a hunt. It usually fell to the King's mounted musketeers to accompany him so there was justifiable reason for an underlying concern, but perhaps His Majesty would exercise a modicum of discretion and settle for shooting birds disturbed by his beaters.

"Anyway," he continued, his attention on cutting the meat into pieces, "the King has set the trial for Savatier in five days. I would have liked a little longer but I was not going to press for more time and risk him changing his mind completely. That should allow us to put the case together and gather any further statements."

"Is Athos right? Is there a risk that Savatier might walk free?" d'Artagnan asked, his demeanour suddenly serious.

Tréville shrugged. "I think he is being over-cautious. Savatier's crimes are so numerous and heinous that Louis is in no doubt what the outcome will be. I do not expect him to confess to any part of it, unless he has become so unhinged that he will admit all, or some of it at least, as a spurious boast, but if one of the men that we still hold could be persuaded to talk against him, it would be a great help, and we will also amass recent statements and historical accounts from Ré. Some might argue that it is circumstantial at times, but with the wealth of accounts that we will put together, it cannot be ignored."

"I have seen men sentenced to death with a lot less," Aramis added grimly, his thoughts straying to two earlier occasions when both Athos and Porthos had been tried for murder and condemned with little proven evidence against them.

"Absolutely," Tréville agreed as he chewed on the tender meat.

"Room for one more?" a jovial voice boomed and Porthos lowered his large frame onto the bench to Tréville's right. "I am hungry," he declared, grinning as the three men with him each pushed food and drink in his direction.

"How was the night?" Aramis asked. All of them knew the real reason for the question.

"Peaceful," Porthos acknowledged, "which is more than can be said for the evenin'." He shook his head. "He was just spoilin' for a fight with anyone about anythin'. Stopped 'im from getting' into three, by which time 'e was so drunk an' angry, 'e took a swing at me." There was no need to identify the 'he' to whom he referred.

"And?" d'Artagnan prompted as Porthos took an enormous bite of bread, meat and cheese together.

He chewed happily, gesturing with the food in his hand. " 'E missed so I thumped 'im. I was intendin' to slow 'im down but 'e was so far gone in wine, I knocked 'im out instead."

"Ah," said Aramis as realisation dawned. "That's why the evening ended so early."

"Yeah, shame about that," Porthos grinned. "It was just getting' interestin'. I was wonderin' what 'e could get up to next to upset people. Never mind. At least 'e slept all night."

"You might want to stay out of his way today then," Tréville suggested, "if he remembers that you punched him."

"Too late for that, 'e's already awake, an' I don't think charmin' is goin' to be in 'is personality this mornin'. I reckon 'e only stopped cursin' an' shoutin' because 'is 'ead was poundin' so much. Serve 'im right to be missin' out on this fine breakfast!" Porthos reached for the end crust of the loaf.

"Speak of the devil," d'Artagnan hissed as the subject of their conversation moved slowly into view.

"Devil's the right word to describe 'im today," Porthos said, deliberately loudly so that his words carried.

They were meant to be heard and it was obvious that they had been as Athos hesitated mid-step. He shuffled the last few paces and sank onto the bench the other side of Tréville, desperately trying to suppress a groan of discomfort. Head bowed, his hat pulled low over his eyes, he sat there, knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the table.

"Good morning," Aramis said breezily with far more volume than necessary, "and how are we feeling this lovely day?"

The head came up briefly, the green eyes narrowed in warning and the jaw muscles clenched but there was no answer. Instead, Athos made to grab the jug of ale but Aramis slapped his hand away and poured a full cup of water instead, holding it out towards him.

"Drink that first and then another couple of the same before you have anything else."

Athos glowered at the cup, then at Aramis and then back at the cup, but it did not move away.

"Drink!" Aramis ordered in a surprisingly low, threatening rumble. Tréville watched in undisguised amusement and lacking any sympathy, wondering how many times over the years such a scene had been played out and who would gain the upper hand.

Today, the victory fell to Aramis. Athos took the proffered water and sipped at it, slowly, before carefully lowering the cup to the table; it was still over half full.

D'Artagnan had an untouched slice of bread on the plate in front of him and pushed it in Athos' direction. He looked at it for a moment and pushed it back. Aramis noted the deliberate swallowing and recognised the battle with incipient nausea.

"So what's the plan for today then?" he asked eagerly, looking at Tréville.

"The King has granted total clemency to any one of the men that we still hold on the condition that they tell us everything that we want to know, no holding back. After the trial, he will be removed far from Paris to begin afresh. The others probably face a life-long internment in the chatelet unless there is evidence that they were directly involved in the deaths of any musketeers, in which case they, too, will be executed."

"That'd be better than any sentence in the chatelet," Porthos commented, as he thought about the years that could be spent incarcerated in so daunting a place.

"You reckoned Pelletier was the best one to talk?" Tréville asked him. He nodded. "Then you will concentrate on him from this morning onwards. We have just five days until Savatier comes to trial to make this case sound and I would like to submit all our documentation the day before."

He sensed Athos stiffen beside him at the announcement.

"Porthos, make the offer to all of them. Try to play them off against each other for a couple of hours but then focus on Pelletier. Don't be easy," Tréville hesitated, "but all things in moderation."

Porthos nodded his understanding.

Tréville turned his attention to the other two alert men. "d'Artagnan, I want you to go back to the bereaved Huguenot families and their neighbours; take statements from all of them. We'll sift through what they say afterwards. Take plenty of men with you. Make it clear that we are sorry for their loss but the perpetrator must be brought to justice so we need their co-operation; we have no time to waste even though we are interrupting their grieving.

"Aramis, you will go to the Protestant churches and cells where these men met and worshipped. Find out what you can about them. With whom did they associate? Search their rooms again. They are not just under suspicion this time; we are looking for anything, anything at all that could be used against them, or that proves their involvement with Savatier against the musketeers. Get every interview you can in writing." He stood up and three men rose with him.

"What about me?" growled the seated figure to his left.

He slapped Athos on the shoulder, eliciting a sharp intake of breath at the jolt. "Simple, you're with me. We are going through all the paperwork and putting together our case. Gentlemen, we will reconvene at seven this evening, unless you return beforehand."

The four men had dispersed before Athos had got himself to his feet. He eyed the stairs indecisively and set off walking in the opposite direction towards the horse trough. It was going to be a long day, pouring over documents and then writing up comments and his fogged brain needed to be focused. Sighing, he knelt beside the trough, doffed his hat and immersed his head.

By the time he got to the open doorway of the office, water dripping from his wet hair and beard and clutching his hat in his hand, Tréville had placed a spare chair on the opposite side of the desk to his and piled several leather bound volumes and rolls of parchment on the desk top. He was in the process of pouring a brandy into a cup when he indicated the extra chair set in place for the newcomer.

"Sit!" he ordered and waited until Athos had lowered himself into the seat before slamming the cup down in front of him. Athos winced at the sudden sound. "Get that down you; hair of the dog," he added by way of explanation.

He studied the wreck of the young man before him, the grey face, the soaked hair already beginning to curl, and gestured again for him to drink. He sighed as Athos downed the fiery liquid in one for he, too, had realised that it was going to be a long day and he needed Athos to be thinking straight and making a constructive input.

"Right, we will begin by putting everything together from Ré and before." He pushed the ink bottle and quill in Athos' direction. "You will scribe, I will dictate but feel free to add anything, as long as we discuss it first." He watched as Athos obediently reached for the writing implement and paper. "One more thing," he said brusquely, and waited until the suffering green eyes settled on him. He softened. "If you're going to throw up, make sure you get outside first!"

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **Was worried about using the expression 'hair of the dog' in case it was anachronistic so I looked it up.**_

 _ **From 'the hair of the dog that bit you', it was a medieval belief that if someone were to be bitten by a rabid dog, the cure was to add some hair of the same dog to the infected wound. (If bitten by a rabid dog, I am not sure I would want to go back to the same animal!)**_

 _ **Anyway, John Heywood, in 'A dialogue conteinying the number in effect of all the prouerbes in the Englishe tongue' (1546), links the phrase to drinking.**_

 _ **Another text, Randle Cotgrave's 'A Dictionarie of the French and English tongues' (1611), also records a drinking version of the expression: "Our Ale-knights (habitual drinkers) often use this phrase and say, Give us the haire of the dog that last bit us."**_


	72. Chapter 72

_**Dear all,**_

 _ **Thanks so much for the feedback on the previous chapter. I will get back to you individually when time allows but I am so encouraged by the fact htat you are sticking with the story when it has been going on so long. I can assure you that it WILL end this month.**_

 _ **So, how's Athos with his self-inflicted hangover and is Treville any more sympathetic? Let's find out!** _

CHAPTER 72

I

As the morning passed, Tréville silently gave Athos credit for his dogged resolve. He must have been feeling absolutely dreadful but he neither stirred from his chair nor stinted in his work. As each point relating to Savatier was remembered or rediscovered, they discussed its relevance, how to use it and Athos wrote it down accordingly, his beautifully fluent script never wavering and in sharp contrast to the spidery scrawl that was so easily recognisable as Tréville's, which was why the younger man was appointed as scribe.

The only time his over-indulgence came to the fore was late morning, when the hammering in the yard dramatically increased; he winced visibly on several occasions as it must have echoed the hammering in his head. Even Tréville had to admit that there was a significant difference in noise level when compared to previous days and he was finding it had to concentrate himself. Briefly, he wondered if all available musketeers had joined in the work simultaneously, especially with their renewed good mood, but then he recalled that a large number had accompanied d'Artagnan and Aramis. Curious, he rose from his desk and went out onto the balcony that overlooked the yard.

"Athos, you might want to come and see this." Tréville's voice was soft with an undeniable catch to it.

Athos joined him and the pair stood looking down upon a hive of industry. The yard was full of people, most of whom were strangers but all were united in one thing, the rebuilding of the stables. More men streamed through the archway, carrying tools, whilst women moved towards the tables at the bottom of the stairs; another one had been dragged to join the one where the _Inseparables_ usually sat. From there, Serge directed operations and invited them to set down the food they had brought: bread, a cheese, varying amounts of fruit, pastries, bowls of thick broth and stews. Anything the women had prepared and could spare, they brought willingly for the men of the King's regiment and those who worked with them.

Serge was filling the table with as many cups and other drinking vessels as he could find. Jugs of watered ale were already in position and two buckets, filled from the well, stood in the shade of a table top as the day's temperatures continued to climb. Men had shed shirts and tunics, a number of which had been discarded in the dust or draped over anything that would not inhibit their toil. Civilian worked beside musketeer in an atmosphere of camaraderie and determination, many bringing with them carpentry skills that surpassed those of their military counterparts, and the soldiers were happy to pause in their labours and listen to advice or instruction.

"Serge?" Tréville called down, not believing what he was witnessing.

The old man looked up at him and held his arms wide, encompassing the scene before him. "They started arrivin' a couple of hours ago an' they 'aven't stopped since. Now the women are turning up, intent upon feedin' all the menfolk as they work, our boys included."

Tréville clattered down the stairs with Athos closely behind, his headache utterly forgotten. "Had you prepared lunch for the musketeers?"

"Course I 'ad," Serge replied crossly. Any suggestion that he might break from producing any meal was tantamount to suggesting that the sun might not rise on the morrow.

"Then bring it all out," Tréville ordered. "Everyone must share."

A titan of a man broke off from what he was doing and approached the former captain, his hand outstretched. As Tréville shook the proffered hand, he recognised him as Alain Allande, a wheelwright and general carpenter who had his workshop two streets away.

"Cap'n," he began. It was, sadly, common knowledge that Tréville no longer held that rank but, just as with the musketeers, it obviously was of no meaning to Allande. "We all heard how the man behind this had been caught. We are heartily sick and sorry for all that you, your men and the people of this city have endured with this mad man on the loose. It's the talk of the area as to how he murdered all those men the night before last. It could've been any one of us."

Tréville did not want to disillusion or correct the man but, unless unwittingly caught up in an exchange between Savatier and the men of the regiment, it was hardly likely that Allande, a committed worshipper at the nearest Catholic church, would be brought to Savatier's attention. He suddenly realised that Allande was still talking.

" … so we thought as how we would all pay our respects to the regiment and this seemed the best way to do it by making sure you were up and running smoothly and as quickly as possible. A regiment with horses but no stables can't function right. I know we could have come before but," and here he paused, his head dipping sheepishly, "I'm sorry to say we were all afraid, not knowing where or how that maniac was going to strike next. We can't forget, though, how you and your men were ready to turn out that night of the fire. If that'd spread, there wouldn't be much left standing around here by my reckonin' and to think you lost a good man an' his family too. It was the least we could do."

Tréville looked around at the people gathered in the yard, some still working but the majority watching, listening, trying to gauge his reaction. His eyes misted over at the generosity of the local people and the realisation that although he had fallen from favour at court, there were more important things to value. The people of the city had not turned their backs on him or the regiment in light of recent events. He cleared his throat and tried to find the words to express his gratitude but all that he could manage was a shaky, "erm."

It was Athos who came to his rescue.

"On behalf of Captain Tréville and my comrades, I want to thank you all deeply for your generosity and kindness of spirit this day. None of us can possibly find the words to truly convey to you what this means to us but, as the King's men, rest assured that we will do all we can to help any one of you should you need it. Never fear coming through that archway if you ever find yourselves in need."

Having had the time to compose himself, Tréville looked around at the assembled throng. "My sentiments exactly. We greatly appreciate your assistance and now, we have a feast as well. Thank you. What more can I say than help yourselves, everyone, please."

There was a general cheer, some applause and then a surge as men moved to the tables covered in food. The yard that had so recently been subdued now rang with a multitude of chattering voices of newly-made friends and relaxed laughter.

Tréville led the way back to the office and sank heavily onto his chair, wiping his face with his hand.

"I did not expect that," he said eventually.

"No matter what has happened, never forget that you are much respected by the people of Paris, especially those in the immediate vicinity of the garrison who have more direct and frequent contact with the regiment," Athos pointed out quietly.

"The Musketeers are respected," Tréville corrected him but Athos shook his head.

"You have and always will be the driving force behind this regiment. Your standards and discipline have set the mark for all of us and the people have seen that."

There was a lengthy pause as both men pondered on what they had just witnessed, why the people had responded en masse as they had and what the future might bring to the musketeers.

Tréville rearranged some papers on his desk and cleared his throat. "Right then, back to business. Where were we?"

Before Athos could give an answer, there was a knock on the door and Serge entered without waiting, a heavy tray in his hands which he set down in the midst of the papers, totally ignoring the warning frown from both Tréville and Athos.

"Folk saw you went without takin' any food. I'd never 'ear the last of it if you two didn't share in what's downstairs," Serge announced and was gone again before the two men could react.

"We'd better do as we are told," Tréville announced, piling a variety of food on a plate and handing it to the younger soldier. He was surprised when Athos reached out to take it, expecting the offer to be immediately rejected but there was no hesitation.

"I suppose we had. After all, we both know it's really Serge who runs the regiment," Athos said drily as he bit into a pastry.

Tréville was about to object when he saw the amused gleam that lit up Athos' eyes.

"Enough of your cheek," he scolded. "Sure sign you are feeling better!"

II

Before they resumed their review of the events of Ré together, Athos worked silently on his own personal memories of what had happened during the siege of Saint Martin and the visit to the camp of the Duke of Buckingham when Savatier had made his poorly judged assassination attempt. He signed it with a flourish which the older man witnessed.

Whilst he waited for Athos to finish his personal account, Tréville had continued to read his reports and made a list of all remaining musketeers who had served during 1627. When Athos was ready, the pair had men from the list brought to them one by one and asked them a series of carefully compiled questions. On Ré, Tréville and Athos had prudently kept much of the information surrounding Savatier to themselves, Porthos, Aramis and Toiras but they had never been sure how much Delacroix had known. Although the man was dead, some of his associates still remained in the regiment, eager to make amends and demonstrate their renewed loyalty. Perhaps they and other soldiers were aware of things that had happened with Savatier at the time and for which they did not appreciate the significance their knowledge could bring in support of the case being constructed.

It was a tedious process, but one which was necessary, even though many of the musketeers could not add anything of value; much of it was vague comment appertaining to the change in Savatier's demeanour once the regiment had departed for La Rochelle. What was of import was the timing of this apparent change which could be substantiated many times over and the seeds of unease that the man had planted within the main body of the musketeers. Tréville had not realised the extent of the detrimental impact the Lieutenant was having on the men and their morale as the weeks passed and he began to wonder how, as their commanding officer, he could have been so blind, so deaf and so wrapped up in his own disagreement and disintegrating relationship with the man.

"There was so much else happening at the time. His motives were clandestine and his methods subtle. You were already dealing with him; you cannot take responsibility for things done and said when you were not present," Athos stated when Tréville had despairingly spoken aloud of not noticing what was happening to his men to undermine his own standing and leadership. Instead, the men had closed ranks against Savatier, ignoring his caustic manner and defending their Captain to the hilt by not reacting and maintaining a stony silence.

Tréville stopped his pacing and stared at Athos, open-mouthed at what had just been said. Then he gave a wry smile as he settled himself back behind the desk. "You would do well to heed your own advice on occasions. Many is the time when you should not be shouldering the responsibility that is not yours to bear."

"Granted," Athos acknowledged with a roll of the eyes at the gentle but pointed admonishment. Had his recent drinking spree not been the direct result of an overwhelming sense of guilt?

"Did you not know of these feelings within the regiment?" the older man suddenly asked as he gazed down upon the pile of papers before him, many of which referred to Savatier's altered manner whilst in Saint Martin.

"Not as such," Athos admitted. "Porthos, Aramis and I knew we were the recipients of much of his ire, especially me, and our brothers deliberately never said anything within our hearing so it seems they were shielding the four of us, presuming that we had enough to worry about. They could not help but see that we were involved in something shortly prior to Savatier's disappearance."

"What I don't understand is how, when we left Paris, he allowed such a change to become so obvious. If he had received an initial instruction regarding Buckingham and the English and did not want to be involved in any plot, why did he go through with it?"

"Perhaps he was so disgruntled with the English and their help for the Huguenots, that he was prepared to help the French cause by any means possible," Athos suggested. His voice dropped. "Or the person who got him involved had something on him, was blackmailing him or forcing his hand in some way."

Tréville looked at him sharply. "You mean Richelieu?" When Athos nodded, he continued, "There is no way we can prove that now. All his papers will either have been destroyed or are now safely in Mazarin's keeping. I still think it was a tenuous hope that he could do anything constructive when we went south."

"We thought at the time it had to be opportunist, that he was possibly just one of many 'agents' who could make a move if the situation presented itself."

Elbows on his desktop, Tréville steepled his fingers. "Maybe we are looking at this from completely the wrong angle. Perhaps he was quite happy to accept the assignment but the initial change in the man was brought about by personal circumstances."

"You mean his sister?" Athos questioned.

"Exactly. We know from Aramis' talk with her when he helped her that her husband has been brutal to her for years but she has not felt able to leave him. She is the one weak link in all this. We apprehended Savatier because he had gone to his sister and was so intent on delivering punishment to his brother-in-law that we were able to take him by surprise. If the relationship between the men had soured because of the husband's treatment of Savatier's sister, it could have concluded with a really nasty incident just before we left Paris and he was worried for her well-being. Who knows, perhaps he was even promised a swift return to Paris to look after her if he agreed to act as a spy, assassin or whatever. Until then, he had been a good soldier and had proven himself on many occasions."

Athos frowned, "You're not feeling any sympathy for him, are you?"

Tréville's expression hardened. "Absolutely not. Whatever happened in his private life has no bearing upon what he has done, either back in 1627 or recent weeks."

"If he hated the Huguenots so much, it still begs the question as to why he has remained with them for five years."

"I think you've thought of plausible reasons before now. They rescued him, nursed him back to health and invited him to remain. He had nowhere else to go, so bided his time. Considering the level of violence he has unleashed, I agree with your earlier suggestion that torture by Buckingham permanently damaged the man in ways that could not be seen. I do not believe for one moment that he has converted to Protestantism. Sadly, it is more likely that he has used them as a means to his own end, encouraging them to take action in their renewed attempts at unrest and citing us somehow as a heavy influence in their oppression."

"We need to hope that Porthos gets some definite answers from his man then," Athos murmured.

"I doubt very much that we will ever learn the full truth," Tréville speculated.

III

By the end of that first day, Tréville and Athos had completed their part of the documentation for the siege of the Citadel at Saint Martin de Ré, including Athos' own statement and those of a number of musketeers whom they had questioned during the day. There were more to whom they could speak but they were with either d'Artagnan or Aramis and so that would have to wait until the morning.

At seven, the five met again in Tréville's office to share the results of their labours but the first comments were about the surprising progress made on the stables so Athos explained to his friends all about the touching scene that had unfolded in the yard that day. The industry had tailed off at about six o'clock but there had been many promises of return visits the next day or until such time as the stables were complete. The three men who had been oblivious to all this happening were suitably impressed but then they revealed that they, too, had had very constructive days.

Porthos had been busy interrogating the three prisoners who had worked with Savatier. Whilst two of them remained doggedly resolute that they were going to say nothing, the big musketeer had brought enough pressure to bear upon Pelletier that he was convinced that the man would buckle before too long and incriminate the former lieutenant.

D'Artagnan produced a pile of documents; the statements he had taken from the families and neighbours of the murdered men. Some did not know Savatier whilst others had heard of him and none of it was good. Tréville immediately discounted the mere hearsay as it was unsubstantiated but he focused on the accounts of those who had seen him or had a more direct contact with him. It was clear that he bothered many with his strong personality but, more to the point, he had railed against the King, his advisers, the Catholic church and the musketeers. All were responsible for the oppression of the Huguenot population, not least at the siege of La Rochelle, and attempted to rally these ordinary, God-fearing people into action against the crown, church and country.

Aramis listened quietly to the account and then added his discoveries into the mix. One Huguenot leader had asked Savatier to leave his church and not go there again, such was the vitriolic outpouring of his angst against Louis. The mild mannered religious man had feared accusations being made against him and his congregation for treason in the event of the wrong person hearing what Savatier said. He had attached himself to two more churches but both leaders there admitted to being disturbed by what Savatier had said explicitly and what had been admitted. Whilst he never actually confessed to being behind the murderous attacks upon the musketeers, he had intimated at some level of action, especially when he tried hard to promulgate varying degrees of civil unrest, justifying it by reiterating that they needed to act in the face of religious subjugation.

Then a witness recounted having heard him irrationally vilify the musketeer regiment on more than one occasion and had seemed unequivocally delighted when their recent tragedies had been reported.

The first day had been an undeniable success and the second kept Tréville and Athos busy as they documented everything that had happened to the regiment since the first murder and how they had discovered that Savatier still lived and was behind the attacks. They attached relevant statements and worked late into the night, hoping that Porthos would appear at any moment with some good news.

The breakthrough came late on the morning of the third day when an exhausted but jubilant Porthos climbed the stairs to the office with a signed confession in his hand from Pelletier. Silently, disbelievingly, Athos and Tréville sat shoulder to shoulder, reading the document and every damning line it held. Pelletier held back nothing; he spoke of the moment when Savatier had been found half-drowned, through his recovery, to his apparently fanatical support for a further Huguenot revolt, advocating unrestrained violence and targeting the musketeers in the first instance. They were the King's men, he had insisted, and by attacking them, it was an affront to Louis as well as a justified punishment for their presence on Ré and at La Rochelle. There was no doubt that the Musketeers were directly responsible for much of the Huguenot suffering at that time.

"Anybody'd think we were the only ones there doin' all o' this," Porthos complained.

"He was twisting everything to get their attention and support," Tréville insisted grimly. When he read the detailed explanation of the individual plots against the regiment that had resulted in deaths, he added quietly, "We have him."

The remainder of the third day was spent adding the final part from Porthos before reviewing and refining the content of what had become a major, weighty document.

The morning of the fourth day saw Athos and Tréville ride out together to deliver their case to the King and the judge who was to preside over the proceedings. The two musketeers summarised their findings and were gratified by the genuine display of Louis' wrath and shock at what they presented. If the monarch had had his way, there would have been no need for there to have been a trial; Savatier should have been summarily executed without wasting everyone's time but it was the low, calm voice of reason from the judge stressing the importance of justice being seen to be done that eventually placated the outraged King.

A short time later, a relieved and satisfied pair began their ride back to the garrison. On coming to one particular junction, Athos turned to the left but Tréville reined in his horse and looked down the road to the right.

Athos rode back to him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Tréville asserted. "I think we should go this way."

"It is in the opposite direction to the garrison."

"I know."

Athos studied the older man carefully. "In fact, that way lies the Chatelet."

"I know that too."

There was a heavy, drawn-out pause.

"You mean to visit Savatier, don't you?" Athos asked quietly.

Tréville gazed in the direction of the prison. "I would see him before court tomorrow; just the once. I have questions for him and although I do not expect any answers, I want to look in his eyes and see if there is any reaction when I ask them. Will you join me?"


	73. Chapter 73

_**Dear all,**_

 _ **Thank you SO much for the feedback on the last chapter; special thanks to the guests to whom I cannot send an individual reply. I know I have to answer the rest of you but will get down to it when I go to family on Wednesday. We really are in the final stages now; by my reckoning, there are 3 more chapters after this one. I cannot tell you all how much I appreciate how many of you are reading this story - and my other ones still.**_

 _ **So, Treville and Athos are visiting the Chatelet ...**_

CHAPTER 73

I

The Chatelet was a dark, forbidding place that inspired uneasy feelings even in those who were making justifiable visits, as Tréville and Athos were on this occasion. For the younger musketeer, it brought back the unwelcome memory of the time when he had been accused, charged and condemned for a series of crimes ranging from theft to murder, including that of d'Artagnan's own father. He had spent just one lonely night locked in its depths, awaiting execution, and he knew the toll those few desperate hours had taken upon him. Heaven knows what a lengthy incarceration could do to a man; a rapid descent into raving madness would probably be the most favourable outcome as loss of reason might diminish the loss of humanity evident in the place.

Just occasionally, the nightmares would return of the moment when he stood before the firing squad, without any hope and believing that his imminent death was barely adequate justice for what he had done to his wife when he ordered her to hang. He had been clumsily but effectively framed for the Paris crimes and, once he discovered that she had survived and was an agent in the employment of the Cardinal, he suspected but could never prove that she was behind the plot to ensure his downfall.

Fortunately, there had been Porthos and Aramis, who never lost their unwavering belief in him and they, together with the young Gascon who had so recently lost his father, set about to prove his innocence. They succeeded in having the sentence overthrown with seconds to spare. His relief had been palpable but what he had suppressed and never shared with them had been his unmitigated fear when he had faced the muskets ranged against him and waited for their shot to tear into his slender frame.

As he and Tréville waited for admittance through the huge oak doorway, he could feel the sweat trickling down his back at the recollection and his hands were slick and trembling. He tried to disguise the tremors by hooking his thumbs over his weapons belt.

The head gaoler of the Chatelet was being obstructive and initially refused to allow entry to the two musketeers to see the prisoner. When pressed, the only reason he could proffer was that he saw no point as the 'aforesaid prisoner' was due in court the next morning, was obviously guilty as hell and anyway, he hadn't exactly been talkative since he had arrived in the place.

Tréville glared fixedly at the man who, at first, attempted to stand firm but then visibly withered under the intense, blue-eyed stare. The soldier then gave the reminder that as he was the one who had supplied the coin that ensured the prisoner's well-being, that gave him every right to see Savatier when and how often he chose.

Minutes later, the gaoler was shuffling his way down a flight of stairs and along a dank, murky corridor, poorly lit by the occasional flaming torch set in a sconce at shoulder height.

Making the detour on their way back to the garrison from the palace, the two military men cut imposing figures in their immaculate leathers, blue woollen cloaks draped over their left shoulders and tied across their chests. Boots on the stone floor rang loud in the corridor as they subconsciously fell into step with matching long strides so that the gaoler almost broke into a run to avoid being trampled. With eyes straight ahead, they ignored the occupants of the other cells that they passed, seemingly oblivious to the hands that reached out to them in supplication through the bars and the jeers from other inmates who recognised the pauldrons or soldierly bearing that represented any authority that was responsible for imprisoning them.

The gaoler stopped at the last cell on the left, gesturing towards it with a sweep of the hand as he breathed hard from his brief exertions.

"Do you want me to come back for you?" he wheezed, looking from one to the other of them.

"No," Athos said abruptly, his attention focused on the figure sitting in the filthy straw against the wall on the far side of the cell. "I think we will be able to retrace our steps."

The sarcasm was lost on the gaoler as he disappeared back the way they had come, mumbling to himself as a chorus of derisory shouts from the other cells accompanied his passing.

Tréville stood very still as he, too, studied the cell's sole occupant, his back ramrod straight with tension and his hands clenching into fists. Against Aramis' advice, he had discarded the sling that had supported his wounded shoulder with the excuse that he did not want to wear it to the palace but Athos wondered if he had planned this little visit all along and wanted to stand defiantly before Savatier and appearing unharmed.

"Well, well, well, and to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" Savatier was the first to speak, his voice dripping with contempt.

"I am surprised that you even have to ask," Athos responded when the older musketeer did not immediately speak. His voice sounded calm, despite the inner turmoil he was experiencing.

Suddenly, Savatier was on his feet and moving with quick, purposeful strides across the cell, his hands gripping at the bars, his face close to the metal as he glared at them. His face still bore the marks of his altercation with Athos but he had lost none of his arrogance.

"For some reason, I find myself with time on my hands. Humour me," he spat at them.

"It's quite simple. Why?" Tréville asked at last.

Athos was relieved at the tone in the older man's voice: deep, level and with the same timbre of command that was redolent of the Tréville of old.

Savatier threw his head back and laughed aloud, the sound bordering upon the manic.

"Why what?" he snarled. "Why has some nasty person been doing terrible things to the King's toy soldiers recently? If you have come thinking that I owe you and your shadow here any form of explanation, you are sadly mistaken. I owe you _nothing,_ Captain. Oops sorry," he grinned. "My mistake. You no longer are Captain of the King's regiment, are you? You're just a lowly musketeer like dear Athos." The grin faded to be replaced by a sneer.

"How does it feel, Tréville? To be nothing but an ordinary soldier once more? To lose the rank behind which you have hidden your incompetence all these years?"

Athos stiffened but Tréville's hand shot out and clasped his lower arm to stay him from any move he might be contemplating. Savatier did not miss the gesture.

"Nothing changes, does it? You still have to use a firm hand to control your pet dog." He looked past them down the hallway. "Where are the other two? They're usually not too far behind."

"They're not here," Athos asserted, his face burning as he struggled to control his rising temper at the insults.

"Just the two of you alone? Ah well, never mind. It's just like old times, isn't it? You two on one side, me on the other. Your boy here could never do anything wrong could he, Tréville? You were always ready to make excuses for him and his mongrel friends. What was that all about, I wonder?"

"Nothing," Athos interrupted. "When we did wrong, we were punished, justifiably so."

"Really?" Savatier's eyebrows shot up in disbelief. "Well not from where I was standing. I never did understand why you took on these three, Tréville: a womaniser, a thief and a drunk."

"They were good men then and they have proved themselves many times over in the intervening years, but you would not know anything about that," Tréville growled.

"Were you jealous?" Athos suddenly asked.

"Jealous? What! Of you?" Savatier's eyes were wide, but his voice had risen and the protest sounded a little false.

"Yes, of the trust and faith that the Captain had in us, in me," Athos could not decide whether he was asking a genuine question or if he were deliberately goading Savatier; perhaps, if pushed enough, the man would lose the little self-control he had and say something unguarded. "Perhaps your sense of it being misplaced was because, for some reason, you felt aggrieved that the Captain was not showing you the same level of trust, even though you were his lieutenant." There, the second deliberate use of the rank 'captain'; Savatier could not help but notice it.

Savatier laughed again and it had lost none of its scorn. "Do not flatter yourself, Athos. I could never understand why he took a drunken piece of filth like you from the gutter and admitted you to the regiment. You were a disgrace to everything it stood for."

"You're so right," Athos conceded, hoping that his agreement would surprise the prisoner; it did. "I wondered myself on more than one occasion why the Captain should expend so much time and energy on me. He obviously saw something in me that even I couldn't see."

"Exactly," Tréville confirmed, having listened to the exchange so far. "You were so quick to judge, Savatier. You were a good soldier and could make decisions without any hesitation and no matter what the effect upon the men it involved, but that was the problem." Suddenly, it was as if Tréville had had a revelation and he warmed to his subject. "You never saw the man for himself, as a human being, and you certainly never took the time to get to know the men under your command, what made them function, how they felt."

"How they felt!" Savatier snorted derisively. "I was not there to consider their feelings. If they didn't like it or it got too tough for their _feelings,_ then they should never have become soldiers! I was not an officer to pander to the whims and emotions of the men, to make them soft."

"I was not asking you to make them soft," Tréville retaliated, "but if you had taken the time to understand them a little better, you would be able to turn their weaknesses into their strengths."

"And, pray, tell me how you managed to turn this man's weakness for drink into a strength? You can't mean that he has finally turned from his wicked ways and abstains from the demon drink!" Savater said condescendingly as he gestured towards Athos.

Tréville looked at the younger man by his side, saw the embarrassed flush at the memory of his most recent drunkenness and gave a warm smile of encouragement. "Oh, you would be surprised. He has not given up the wine and I would never ask that of him, but I could never doubt _his_ loyalty to the regiment or me."

"How touching! Carry on like that, Tréville, and you will move me to tears."

"I'll have you know something else!" Tréville's face hardened. "Even before you betrayed your regiment and your country on Ré, I realised something. You would never advance beyond lieutenant whereas this man," and he indicated towards Athos, "I knew that he had the makings in him to go far with the right guidance and opportunities. He is already the leader you never were and he _will_ Captain the musketeers, if I have any sway remaining with the King."

Athos stared, open-mouthed at Tréville's vehemence and hearing, for the first time, the man's intentions and hopes for the regiment's future.

Savatier was momentarily taken aback with the force of Tréville's response but he quickly gathered himself to strike back. "A far cry from the regiment's inception when it was supposed to be for the sons of nobles."

"From what I recall," Tréville countered, "you were not the son of a noble yourself; your father was a merchant, albeit a wealthy one, and you made your name as a soldier in a range of conflicts."

"Yes, but I had established myself. My reputation and what remained of my father's money – which the regiment needed, I hasten to add – more than made up for my lack of noble breeding, which is more than can be said for …"

"For me?" Athos interrupted, his face expressionless, even as Savatier smirked.

"Put like that, yes."

"You are mistaken."

Athos had to destroy the man's smugness and he had the means to do it. Tréville watched him closely, saw him battling his inner demons as to whether he should reveal his background.

Savatier's derision was the final push needed. "Then, please, enlighten me."

"I am the son of a noble," Athos declared. When Savatier snorted, he continued. "I am the Comte de la Fère, from one of the oldest families in France, although it is a title I no longer use or recognise, and I have given up all its associated entitlements."

Savatier's eyes widened in shock and his mouth gaped and moved silently like a landed fish. At last he spoke, his question levelled at Tréville. "And you knew?"

"Of course I knew," Tréville answered, but he was not going to reveal how he knew or how long it had taken him to elicit the information from the young Comte. "I said nothing because he had asked for anonymity and I respected his request."

"And that is what comes from knowing and understanding your men," Athos taunted, throwing the words back at the former lieutenant. "I trusted the Captain without question," and he took a deep breath in preparation for his _coup de grâce,_ "whereas I never trusted you and I was proved right."

"Aren't you the clever one then?" Savatier's retort was petulant, pointless.

"Why have you harmed the men of the regiment?" Tréville demanded, his change in subject unexpected.

"I am saying nothing," Savatier replied defiantly.

"I am not looking for your confession, not now," Tréville admitted, realising, even as he spoke, that he meant it. "It is not needed for the trial tomorrow. It is sufficient that you betrayed this country when you attempted to assassinate the Duke of Buckingham; you could have thrown us into a protracted war with England that the King was keen to avoid. As to the identity of the person who put you up to the act," and he saw the expression change in Savatier, the alarm in his eyes, "I have my suspicions but as that person is no longer available to answer to his involvement, it is of no matter."

The reference to the late Cardinal Richelieu was clear and the flicker of Savatier's eyes away from Tréville's was all that was needed to confirm his supposition.

"We also have plenty of other evidence, not least a full confession from your confederate, Pelletier; he has admitted everything and given us a full account of your part."

It was enough. Tréville's pronouncement took Savatier by surprise and he turned his back on the musketeers, walking away from them as he returned to the floor where they had first found him. His resemblance to a wounded animal was fleeting as he composed his features and glared defiantly at them once more.

"I will say no more," he declared.

"Why take it out on the men? Why harm them and the ones they love?" Tréville demanded but was met by stony silence.

"Was it all because you hated me so much that you used any means possible to hurt me by hurting them?"

Tréville continued to ask a few more questions but the response was always the same – uncommunicativeness. Savatier was as good as his last words; he was not going to say any more. In anger and frustration, Tréville slapped at the bars with the flat of his hand and glowered at the former musketeer before turning on his heels and striding back along the corridor, Athos trailing in his wake.

As they neared the garrison, Athos broke the silence that had shrouded them.

"Did you glean anything that you wanted?"

Tréville thought carefully before he answered.

"Yes, I believe I did. I have a closure, a confirmation of things I had surmised. Richelieu was behind the attack on Buckingham although I cannot begin to understand what he hoped to achieve by a long, drawn-out conflict and we will never know. As for Savatier, he was all that we had decided and more: bitter, twisted, jealous, consumed by hatred and damaged by events. He was a good soldier who went badly wrong with tragic consequences. He will be tried tomorrow and found guilty. I will be able to look at him without any sense of guilt or remorse surrounding the end that he has undeniably brought upon himself; there are no more questions in my mind as to what I could or should have done differently that might have had him journey along another path. Amongst many things, he did not like my methods of command and I would not change them for him or anyone. It is done; with Savatier's execution, a sad chapter in the history of the musketeers will have ended. We have spent too much time of late revisiting the past, it is time that we looked to the future."

Athos let the older man pull ahead on his mount as he pondered the words that had just been said. That they had been uttered with the same gravitas and belief he was accustomed to hearing from the erstwhile captain, there was no doubt, but they were tinged with a melancholy for the future of the musketeers was still uncertain.

Tomorrow would bring the sentence down upon Savatier.

And what else?


	74. Chapter 74

_**Dear all,**_

 _ **Many, many thanks for your words of encouragement on the last chapter and I am especially glad that you like the depiction of the Treville/Athos relationship. There were so many lovely hints at it, especially from series 2, that I wish they had found time to explore it a little more. Perhaps the writers thought it enough that Treville would recommend Athos to the king as Captain in episode 10. I always liked how Athos sought him out with the wine to watch the eclipse together, when Athos could not be anywhere near Milady, he knew what the other man was going through after his demotion and he no doubt appreciated the support at Pinon. This story, of course, falls between episodes 5 and 6 and the events of 'Renegade' just add to the mix.**_

 _ **We arrive at the trial at last. There will be a gap of a few days (I need to write!) but we have just two more chapters after this, so will it all be plain sailing?**_

 _ **Come on, you all know me by now...!**_

CHAPTER 74

I

The new day dawned, grey, cool and threatening rain, with an overriding heaviness that echoed the atmosphere of the garrison. The trial would signal the end of a traumatic period but recent ebullience at Savatier's capture had given way to reflection on lost brothers and an incredulity that such things had come to pass, visited upon them by someone who had been known to many of them. The sombre mood was there through the hushed breakfast, Serge moving between the quiet tables without making any of his usual acerbic comments.

The subdued ambience continued as the men gathered in the yard to watch the departure of those going to the trial. Even though they all desperately wanted to attend, they knew that it was impractical. The venue was not a large room for proceedings had been transferred to the palace as the King insisted upon being present, therefore arrangements were made for his convenience. Admittance was therefore restricted to the immediate families of the bereaved, both musketeer and civilian, and those bearing witness against the accused. D'Artagnan had been given leave to accompany his brothers because, if necessary, he could be called to give testimony regarding the attack upon him, the head injury he had received and the words he had heard spoken about being too young, those very words that, together with the symbol, had ultimately given Athos the idea of the link with Ré.

The _Inseparables_ , together with Tréville and three other musketeers who could be called upon to give evidence, mounted their horses. All the men looked tired, a sign that none had slept well, and mouths were set in grim lines. A unit of eight men had gone ahead to the palace with Pelletier, the star witness for the prosecution. Members of the Red Guard were tasked with escorting Savatier from the Chatelet as it was deemed too personal for the musketeers to assume such a role. When Tréville had heard this, he was furious.

"Do His Majesty and Rochefort truly think that we would throw it all away at this stage by taking matters into our own hands and denying justice to all those families?"

"Perhaps they wanted to avoid putting additional stress upon us, allowing us to concentrate on the trial and what it means to each of us," offered Aramis, ever the peacemaker.

There had been no more mention of Savatier after that and now, as the group prepared to ride out through the gate, the remaining men filled the yard and lined their exit. In a moving gesture of solidarity, they came to attention and stood silently, swords raised in salute as Tréville and the others rode out between them.

The journey to the palace took longer than anticipated as news of the impending trial had spread and more people than expected filled the streets, especially as the group drew closer to their destination. There was no chance of anyone extra being allowed in to spectate but that did not deter them; they hovered in the vicinity of the palace gates, satisfied with the prospect of being amongst the first to learn of the outcome, even though they all anticipated a guilty verdict.

In the temporary courtroom, the musketeers eased their way through the throng to the front and took up their positions just as the double doors opened at the back of the dais on which an ornate chair stood, flanked by two plainer ones, behind a table. The King emerged and those congregating within the room bowed low as he took his place in the centre chair; he had vowed that he would see the conviction of the man responsible for the attacks upon his regiment and the citizens of Paris. He might not like the Huguenots but he had to be seen to be fair and defend them also. The robed judge sank into the chair on the King's left and initiated the proceedings whilst Rochefort, who had found some excuse to be present, occupied the one to Louis' right.

Savatier was marched in by six of the Red Guard, the manacles on his wrists and shackles around his ankles rattling and clanking with each step. The array of bruises on his face had changed from a bluish-purple to a yellowy green even overnight but what was really noticeable was his frightening defiance as his eyes focused upon the King and never wavered as the terrifying list of charges was read out by the Judge.

"The prisoner is charged with the murders of nine musketeers: Henri-Albert Benin, Paul Armand Sebastien, Martin Moreau, Michel Duprés, Christophe Hubert, Roland Amyot, Etienne Lanthier, Lucas Caronne and Pascal Thibaut. In addition, the charges include the murders of Thibaut's wife, Marianne, and their two children, Clara and Tristan."

A small gasp of horror accompanied the names of the children.

"The prisoner is furthermore charged with the murders of the garrison stable boy, Georges Arnaud, and ten citizens of Paris: Franck Morel, Raymond Landry, Joseph Carvier, Eric Brun, Eugene Gravois, Gustave Denis, Gaston Pascal, Yves Leroy, Didier Benoir and Madame Clarisse Benoir."

"A veritable killing spree," Aramis said softly, Porthos grunting his agreement.

"The prisoner is hereby charged with five counts of attempted murder, two of them against the musketeer, Monsieur Tréville, one recent and one historic, going back to 1627."

Athos glanced quickly at Tréville. "They must have counted your fight with him on the rocks when you both went into the water."

The older man merely nodded, his attention firmly on the Judge who was still reading. "There were two further attacks upon musketeers Athos and d'Artagnan."

"They're throwin' everythin' at 'im," Porthos said in a loud whisper.

"A lot of it is circumstantial," Athos murmured. "We have no way of proving that it was him who shot at me or that he hit d'Artagnan."

"But the sheer volume of charges cannot be denied and much of it is substantiated," Tréville reassured him. "We made sure of that."

"Another attempted murder was against the brother-in-law, Marius Gaultier. Additional charges include two counts of arson, both of which could have had dire consequences for the city. The first was the firing of the Thibaut residence which could have spread swiftly were it not for the quick thinking and combined actions of the local residents and the men of the musketeer regiment. The second incident was an attack upon the garrison itself where some valuable horse stock was lost when the stables were destroyed. In a place where there is an armoury, had the fire spread there, the possible outcome is unthinkable.

"Finally, a most grievous charge of treason is brought against the prisoner."

Uproar ensued as many of the people in the courtroom had been completely unaware of this event and the Judge was forced to hammer with a gavel to regain order.

"You, Savatier, are charged with an attempt upon the life of George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, adviser to and close confidant of Charles, King of England and brother-in law to our own King Louis of France. Such an act, during a time when tensions were high between the two countries, could have plummeted France into a long, drawn-out conflict with her island neighbour."

Another outburst at the charge followed and this was not suppressed so easily as feelings were mixed. Many of those present were the bereaved families of the Huguenot men; they were well aware of the events of La Rochelle and that English support had come under the leadership of Buckingham. It had been unsuccessful in the end but there was no denying the allegiance to the Protestant cause and it was inconceivable that Savatier, who had appeared to be one of their own, had sought to assassinate the English Duke.

Order was finally restored when Louis threatened to have the court cleared, witnesses being the only people admitted and then one at a time.

The Judge frowned, set down the paper and fixed his attention upon Savatier. "What say you, sir, to the charges?"

As he had sworn the day before, he refused to say anything. Savatier just smiled.

II

The trial was, as nearly everyone had envisaged, merely a formality.

With the exception of the attempt on the life of the Duke of Buckingham, the Îsle de Ré events were swiftly dealt with and Tréville was the first to be called, closely followed by Athos. They gave testimony succinctly and answered questions put to them with the expected degree of professionalism and objectivity. Aramis was called next but, with the likely similarity of their testimony, it was not deemed necessary to examine Porthos. Likewise, only one of the remaining three musketeers was questioned. Throughout the process, Savatier had done his best to intimidate the musketeers, his steely glare fixed upon each of them as they spoke.

Following a brief recess - for the King was in need of refreshments – Tréville and Athos were called back to answer questions relating to the Paris attacks on musketeers, including the failed attempts upon their lives, and the garrison. D'Artagnan was summoned to give his account and, although nervous and never having spoken in court, he acquitted himself well.

The morning was exhausted and so, it seemed, was the King and proceedings halted again for a lengthy lunch. When court resumed, witnesses were brought forward from the Huguenot community who spoke of Savatier's time amongst them and his character, none of it very flattering. There was one worrying episode when Madame Brun was overcome with grief as she spoke of her murdered husband and began hysterically screaming at the musketeers, accusing them of being responsible as they had taken in her poor, innocent Eric for questioning, drawing the monster Savatier's attention to him so that within hours of leaving the garrison, he had been targeted and butchered.

Tréville and his men stood firm, their faces impassive as they listened to her tirade as she was dragged from the court by family members. There was some truth to what she said. Savatier had been watching and seen the men either enter or leave the garrison and had enacted his malicious retribution on the men without ever knowing the extent of their co-operation. Some were, indeed, innocent men and that was something Tréville and his _Inseparables_ would have to live with, even though they could not have foreseen what Savatier would do.

Pelletier was brought in mid-afternoon and Savatier, who had totally ignored the civilian witnesses this far, suddenly became animated so that he had to be physically restrained by the Red Guard. All the while, he alternated between emitting guttural noises and animalistic roars, none of which ever became actual words but it was enough to unnerve Pelletier. He stood, visibly shaking and sobbing, flinching from Savatier's noisy assault until the Judge summoned Pelletier to step forward and stand just in front of him, whilst he threatened the ex-musketeer with removal until he had calmed himself. Haltingly, the nervous witness responded to carefully structured questions and, gradually, Savatier's role in the attacks upon the musketeers and Paris citizens was laid bare.

Savatier's fate was sealed.

The last part of the trial dealt with the assassination attempt upon Buckingham and Athos, having been present when it happened, was called upon to give his evidence. His voice was steady, his content detailed but all relevant and when he had concluded, it was clear that there was no need for the Judge to spend time deliberating upon what he had heard.

The sentence was quickly delivered.

"For crimes against the King, His Majesty's musketeers, the citizens of Paris and France herself, you have been found guilty," the Judge intoned. "There can only be one punishment for such heinous crimes. You will be held at the Chatelet overnight and taken from there at dawn to a place of execution. You will be hanged by the neck until dead when your body will be cut down and immediately buried in an unmarked grave. May God have mercy upon your soul."

The court erupted at the judgment. Some family members broke down, thankful that their loved ones had been given justice. Others forgot that they were in the presence of royalty, ignoring protocol as they rushed the doors, almost fighting with each other to be the first out onto the street to deliver the news to those who waited. Rochefort looked about him, his face a stony mask as he slipped unseen from the courtroom. The musketeers breathed a collective sigh of relief and clasped hands, shaking them warmly as the King rose and called Tréville by name.

The men broke apart, allowing him to step forward. He dipped his head deferentially at having been addressed.

"Sire," he acknowledged and gazed up at the flamboyantly dressed monarch.

"It is a good result, I am sure you will agree," Louis said, his features breaking into a jubilant smile.

"Indeed it is, Sire. The court of France has been seen to give a fair trial and mete out appropriate justice."

"The people will be satisfied. It has been a terrible few weeks; I do not know how my nerves have withstood the ordeal."

Tréville clenched his teeth at the King's words and was glad that the _Inseparables_ were standing behind him for he could well imagine the expressions on their faces. When had matters ever really encroached upon Louis' existence?

"I hope I never have to hear or think on this beastly business again. You would do well to consider applicants more carefully, Tréville, when selecting my musketeers. Can't have them all turning out like this murderer, can we?" and he gave an amused laugh as he turned from the table towards the door.

The musketeers bowed low but Tréville's eyes widened and his breath hitched as he went over the King's words again and again in his head. What did Louis mean by saying that Tréville had to pick men more carefully? Was it just a slip of the tongue? Did Louis actually mean anything at all? Was he merely referring to the musketeers he had put forward in the past to receive commissions or was Louis referring to future ones? Was the King going to forgive and reinstate him as Captain? Dare he hope after all this time?

"Oh and Tréville?' The King was still speaking as he paused by the door. "I expect you want to see things through to the bitter end. I am not in favour of granting a huge audience to this man's execution but as he went around killing my musketeers, I shall expect you to represent me at his death. You can take another musketeer with you. Monsieur Athos, you'll do. You seem to have played a big enough part in upsetting this chap. Now, where's Rochefort gone?" And with that last question on his lips, Louis was gone, accompanied by the Judge.

The Musketeers straightened from their final bow and looked at each other. Athos looked at Tréville. They had both been granted the dubious honour of seeing Savatier hang. It had been a long journey, one that had lasted intermittently for over five years but, at dawn the following morning, they would have reached their destination. Savatier would be no more.

But even Athos was wondering on the King's words to Tréville. Would more be made right with the dawning of a new day? He, too, dared to hope that the Captain would be reinstated for he vividly remembered Tréville's endorsement of him the previous day, that he would be recommended for promotion to the Captaincy of the Musketeers. He had temporarily tasted that responsibility and it had been fraught with problems and he still did not think himself ready or worthy, no matter what Tréville thought. If the older man were to be restored to his former rank, Athos would be celebrating harder than most!

III

The garrison was alive and noisy in the evening hours but there was also a conflict of emotions. There was celebration for Savatier had been tried and sentenced. Judgement had been served and dawn the next morning would see an end to the man and the train of events he had unleashed upon the King's men. With the happiness, though, there came a sadness. Too many of their brothers had perished either directly by his hand or at his instigation and many other innocents had been caught up in his machinations against Tréville and the regiment. It was still hard to make sense of it all but as wine and beer flowed freely at Tréville's behest, spirits likewise began to lift.

Serge had never been in any doubt as to the outcome and he had surpassed himself in the preparation of a veritable feast, appealing for help from men remaining at the garrison if they were not directly involved in finishing the rebuilding of the stables. When Tréville had raised a questioning eyebrow and commented upon the sudden depletion of garrison stores, Serge frowned, folded his arms across his chest in an open act of defiance and stated that the men were in need of a good time to boost morale.

Tréville stared at him as the _Inseparables_ stood by and watched the exchange. The old man tried to wait him out, to gauge his response, expecting a lecture that never came. Instead, Tréville clapped him on the shoulder and gave a hearty laugh, one that had not been heard from the man for far too long.

"We will worry about the books and orders another day," he grinned. "Who knows?" he added, looking directly at Athos, "I may not have to worry about them at all."

In that instant, Athos felt a sinking in the pit of his stomach and he stared into the glass in his hand, the wine having suddenly soured. Tréville, not noticing the impact of his words moved off to exchange pleasantries with other musketeers.

"You aren't drinking," Aramis commented, appearing at his side and offering to refill the glass from the bottle he held. In his face and voice, there was the unspoken understanding that something had happened.

Athos gave a weak smile to reassure him, downed his wine in one, grimaced at the after-taste but still held out the glass for more. He did not think that any amount of alcohol could drown the feeling of dread he was experiencing at that moment.

The door to the mess opened, bringing with it a blast of cool evening air as a young man, wearing the colours of the King's household, craned his neck to see past the wall of musketeers as he searched for someone in particular. It was d'Artagnan who threaded his way through the press of soldiers to the visitor, listened for a moment and then led him to where Tréville had rejoined Porthos and Aramis.

Somewhat detached, Athos watched as the servant handed a message to the senior musketeer and, duty done, rapidly disappeared.

Tréville was still smiling as he opened the letter and unfolded it to peruse its contents. Eyes fixed upon him, Athos saw the moment when the smile froze, the hand trembled until the grip tightened, crumpling the edge of the paper. Colour drained from the man's face and he almost staggered at an unseen blow. Aramis reached out a hand to steady him but he shook it off, his features darkening with an untold rage.

Athos felt sick as he had an awful presentiment regarding the letter's content. Hardly daring to breathe, he pushed aside colleagues and moved slowly, his legs leaden as though he were trying to walk under water. He stopped immediately in front of the older man.

"What is it? What's happened?" He was speaking but it was not his voice. It was strained and somehow distant.

Tréville struggled to control the tide of emotions that had washed over him in an instant, suppressing the anger that threatened to consume him.

"Savatier!" he exclaimed as he screwed up the letter into a tight ball and hurled it into the hearth. "He is on the run. Somehow," and the word was imbued with vitriol and suspicion, "he managed to escape from the Red Guard as they were escorting him back to the Chatelet!"


	75. Chapter 75

**_Dear all,_**

 ** _Hope you all had a good Easter. Sorry for keeping you waiting but here is the penultimate chapter. I didn't get as far as I had intended with it but it seemed a good place to close for this one. I still intend the next chapter to be the very last one for 'Retribution', no matter how long it ends up being._**

 ** _Thank you for all the comments on the last chapter, especially to those guest reviewers that I could not contact individually. I really do value the time you all take to comment or message me separately._**

 ** _Hope you enjoy this one - and I'll 'see' you the next time for the last one in this epic journey._**

CHAPTER 75

"I will see him now!" Tréville demanded as he strode through the palace corridors, scattering Red Guard in his wake. Anyone who felt brave enough to consider trying to stop him physically was quickly deterred by Athos, Aramis and Porthos, their grim faces daring the Guard to attempt anything and hands hovering near their swords.

"Tell him I am here and that I will not move until he has shown himself," he insisted, his voice raised deliberately so that, if all else failed, Rochefort would at least hear him.

As one of Rochefort's men hurried away to disturb him, Tréville impatiently paced the polished floor, anger emanating from him in waves.

One of the guards, whom Athos recognised as being the one he had pinned against the wall after insulting Tréville when he was wanting an audience with Louis, muttered under his breath, "You'd better be prepared to wait a long time again."

Tréville didn't hear the man but it did not escape Athos who slowly turned towards him and fixed him with a steely stare.

"Do you have something to say?" he asked in the same tone he might use when inquiring whether a guest wanted any refreshments.

The guard blanched, the moments when he could not breathe too vivid a recollection.

"No, no, nothing at all," he stammered, not wanting to aggravate the musketeer any further, or either of his colleagues who were now looking in his direction with definite interest.

"That is just as well," Athos said in a deceptively calm manner. He was deterred from saying anything else by a door being thrown open at the far right-hand end of the room and crashing back on it hinges.

"What on earth can justify this unwelcome and voluble intrusion at this hour, Tréville?" Rochefort demanded, his face pinched with annoyance as he swept into the room, long robe billowing out behind him. He was dressed informally, his ornately embroidered linen shirt unlaced at the neck and most of its voluminous lower hem untucked and hanging loose, suggesting that he had been summoned from his bed although the hour was not that late.

Tréville felt a momentary satisfaction at the prospect of his unexpected arrival interrupting the vile man's evening entertainment but he rapidly refocused upon the real reason for his visit.

"I want to know why you have only seen fit to notify me now of Savatier's escape after a delay of several hours."

"Simple," Rochefort answered, his exasperation evident at the seemingly irrelevant question. "I was only informed of the discovery of the bodies of my guards just over an hour ago and so I sent to the Chatelet and awaited confirmation that Savatier had never been returned to his cell. At that point, I wrote word to you. I could have waited until the morning to inform you but presumed that you would want to be after the murderer as soon as possible."

"You have not sent anyone after him yet?" Tréville was incredulous.

"Er, no," Rochefort said slowly, condescendingly, as though addressing someone who had trouble understanding him. "It was enough that I had to send out guards to retrieve the three bodies of my men, without commencing a manhunt as well. I thought you might appreciate the impact this has had upon the Red Guard, bearing in mind the number of Musketeers you have so carelessly lost in recent weeks."

"My men managed to grieve _and_ conduct a manhunt," Tréville said cuttingly.

"Three," Athos suddenly said aloud.

"What?" Rochefort rounded upon him with contempt, indicating what he thought of the musketeer's interruption.

"You said three bodies," Athos quoted him.

"Yes, what of it?" Rochefort seemed convinced now that he was being addressed by an imbecile.

"It was deemed necessary for six men to bring Savatier into court and yet you thought only to have three return a condemned man to the Chatelet," Athos observed, careful to keep his expression and tone devoid of censure and accusation, even though his very words indicated otherwise.

Rochefort's features darkened, "What are you suggesting?"

Tréville tensed, sensing the confrontation that he was also seeking.

Athos shrugged; the very action a signal of gross disrespect that was not lost on any of the men present. "I am suggesting nothing; I am merely wondering why the guard was effectively halved."

Rochefort was becoming increasingly angry. "It was an excessive use of manpower when the man was shackled at his wrists and ankles."

"Which then sets me to wonderin' just 'ow Savatier was able to overcome three armed guards an' kill 'em," Porthos shared his comment with Aramis. "I don't remember 'im bein' armed when he left the courtroom."

"I do not like what your men are implying, Tréville. You need to exercise some control over them," Rochefort said pointedly.

Tréville raised an eyebrow. "But they are not my men, Rochefort, not any more. At least, that is what you are so frequently fond of reminding me." He smiled at the musketeers who stood on either side of him, united in rankling the other man as much as possible. "I do have to agree with them though. How has he overcome three armed men? And what did he do then? Just shuffle away? He cannot have got far, unless, of course, his irons were deliberately removed. It would be easy to find out if there is a blacksmith in the immediate area."

"It must've been a blacksmith," Porthos said to Aramis. "After all, the keys would've been left at the Chatelet when they collected 'im this morning'. They would have no reason to take 'em off in court an' they wouldn't be wantin' to remove the shackles before they got 'im back to prison, would they?"

"We could quickly check upon that," Aramis agreed. "Heaven forbid that any of the guards would have been so remiss as to have taken the keys with him."

"No," said Porthos dismissively, "the Red Guard can't be that stupid! I reckon if one of 'em 'ad the keys on 'im, 'e was maybe followin' some sort of instruction."

"Or perhaps," Aramis offered, warming to the subject, "someone else had the keys from the Chatelet. We can ask the head gaoler when we pay him a visit."

Athos refrained from engaging with the banter, his silence indicative of his close observation of proceedings, his active mind mulling over what he was seeing and hearing.

"I demand that you desist from this attack upon the competence of my men," Rochefort was furious now.

Tréville frowned, his own patience wearing thin. "It is fair comment and to which I expect you to find the answers, Rochefort. You had the responsibility for transporting Savatier yet, guarded as he supposedly was and fettered, he has escaped. He had to have had assistance from someone."

There was no mistaking now what Tréville was implying and, consequently, Rochefort was beginning to lose his composure.

"I do not appreciate your accusation, Tréville!"

Another door, in the left-hand corner this time, opened behind Rochefort and a very stern-faced King strode towards them, having been warned by a steward as to the developing altercation in a reception room.

"What is going on here?" Louis wanted to know, his unforgiving gaze sweeping back and forth across the assembled men, all of whom had bowed low. As they straightened and before any of them could begin an explanation, the monarch scowled at the commander of the Red Guard.

"Is this true what I hear, Rochefort? Pray explain to me why I have to learn from a mere steward that two of my advisers are squabbling like adolescents in a reception room and that a mad man is once more on the loose in this city having escaped from your men!"

As Rochefort's demeanour changed, his face and tone softening to smooth over his relationship with the monarch, he sought to excuse himself. Tréville listened as the story unfolded again and took a deep breath to intervene but the King raised a hand, halting his interruption.

"Not now, Tréville; you will have your say," the King commanded as Rochefort once more bemoaned the loss of his men, emphasising the shock felt by the fallen men's comrades.

Athos, tired of listening to Rochefort's practised eschewal of responsibility, was distracted by movement in the doorway through which the King had made his entrance minutes before. Taking a step to his left to improve his sightline, he saw a figure, evidently listening, drawing back into the shadows. He glanced towards the King who was now inviting Tréville to say his piece, despite Rochefort being less disposed in allowing him to register his complaints against the Red Guard.

Dipping his head deferentially and mumbling a plea to be excused that was heard by no-one except Porthos and Aramis, Athos took a wide path around the monarch and his steward and made towards the door.

"No, no, no, _mon ami,_ " Aramis whispered worriedly as he watched Athos go for he, too, had fleetingly caught a glimpse of the slight figure in the doorway, "now is not the time or place to go off and confront your wife." He knew how much it pained the musketeer to see his estranged wife ensconced within the palace as the King's mistress.

Porthos groaned softly as he watched his friend disappear.

"Next time Tréville tries to claim that you an' me are the ones always getting' ourselves into trouble, I'll remind 'im of this moment," and he looked to where the former Captain was very strongly making his case.

There was no longer any denying his accusation of incompetence on the part of the Red Guards and he was strongly hinting that Rochefort was actively involved in Savatier's escape, although without any proof of that participation, he was skilfully holding back from making a declaration that he might later come to regret.

Porthos nodded in Tréville's direction. "You stay 'ere with 'im from getting' 'imself killed by Rochefort."

"Ha," said Aramis with feigned lightness, "you always leave me the easy jobs. What are you going to do?"

"I'm off after the other one, stop 'im from doin' somethin' even more stupid," and, just as Athos had done before him, he bowed slightly, murmured an apology that went ignored by everyone present, and quietly left the room in the wake of his friend.

Once again, Athos found himself in pursuit of his wife through the palace corridors. How many days had it been since the last time? He could not remember but quickened his pace, marvelling at the speed with which Ann could move when she chose, even when weighted down with a heavy silken skirt.

Catching up with her, he grabbed her arm, halting her flight as he turned her round to face him.

"Let me go," she insisted, struggling to pull away from him.

He ignored her. "What have you done?" he demanded, his eyes and voice hard, even as his grip on her tightened, no doubt bruising the delicate flesh on her upper arm.

She stopped moving, her green eyes boring into his as she smiled contemptuously. "I'm sorry. Since when did all the ills of France suddenly become my responsibility?"

"Since you came back," he responded curtly as a tide of conflicting emotions battled within him. He was angry – at her and, more than that, with himself. Why was he incapable of maintaining some semblance of control and level-headedness when he was within sight of her? How, after all this time, did it still hurt so much: what she had done, how she had betrayed him?

She arched an eyebrow scornfully. "Really? And what am I supposed to have done this time?"

He had no evidence, nothing on which to base his assumption other than pure instinct; that and a deep distrust of the woman who, in the eyes of the church, was still his wife but who had killed his brother, thwarted the justice he had ordered, conspired against him, had been an agent of the Cardinal, used d'Artagnan and now warmed the bed of his King. Rightly or wrongly, he could believe anything of her these days.

"You killed Rochefort's Red Guards and released Savatier," he spat out.

Her beautiful eyes flickered, just for a moment, but he had seen it and wondered what it signified. Milady de Winter recovered herself quickly and this time, when she shrugged to free herself, he let his hand drop.

"Why would I do something like that and jeopardise my position with the King?" she challenged him, taunting him with her relationship with Louis.

"You have no position with the King," he fought back. "He will tire of you soon enough."

"Is that what you think? You were happy enough to make use of my apparent position with His Majesty the last time you came to me, wanting me to influence him so that you could have an audience with him. Besides," she simpered, "I am sure that I have many more ideas about ways that I can sustain Louis' interest than his Queen has."

She mentally scored a satisfactory point of success when she saw his cheek muscles tighten; he was gritting his teeth to refrain from making any barbed rejoinder. Deciding to risk all and continue provoking him, she at least had the sense to move beyond his reach as she held her head coquettishly.

"Are you jealous that I am in the King's bed? Are you worried that I might find him a better lover than you?"

It was a low blow, she knew that, and she would certainly never admit to him that, as she lay in the King's arms, her thoughts frequently strayed to Athos and the early days of their marriage, before it all went so tragically wrong. She knew the King could and would never love her as Athos had done, that no man could ever match those heady days of unbridled passion and unrivalled adoration.

There never was - nor could there ever be – a justifiable comparison between the two men. Monarch he might be, but Louis paled into insignificance when judged beside the temperament and the sheer physicality of the man who was her husband. Athos had charmed her totally with his manner, intelligence and undeniable beauty when they first met but now, with the experience of five hard years of soldiering and undisguised melancholy to shape him further, he had been imbued with such a rough, raw attractiveness that she could fully understand why Ninon de Larroque had been drawn to him.

She knew that there was no possibility of them going back to what had been; things had changed irreparably and far too much had happened between them to turn back time but, when she had listened to the Comtesse speak of her fascination for the musketeer, she had experienced a surprising stab of possessiveness. The realisation came that if she could not have her husband, then no-one else should have him either. It had been a small comfort when she noted that although he had moved on and established a new life for himself as a mere soldier, he had never let another replace her in his heart. When their paths had crossed in the chateau at Pinon that had once been their home, it had come as a surprise to her that he still wore her locket, the one in which she had placed a pressed forget-me not in memory of a specific day of love and laughter.

Ann saw him stiffen now, his eyes blazing in suppressed anger, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides but he made no move towards her.

"You just cannot help yourself, can you?" he said, his voice low, menacing.

"You don't deny it though," she pressed.

"It is irrelevant," he admonished her as he reached another devastating conclusion. "Stop evading the issue. Louis would never countenance Savatier's rescue; he wants the man dead for the trouble he has caused and his attack upon the King's regiment. Rochefort, on the other hand, would like nothing more than the opportunity to make life difficult for us and what better way than to give the order for Savatier's rescue. The circumstances surrounding the incident are questionable and he must at least appear to be removed from involvement. A straightforward order to release Savatier would merely invite investigation of the three guards escorting him and, as we have long suspected that the majority of the Red Guard are lacking in intelligence, they might not withstand close questioning. Now if, on the other hand, he was to give instruction to an assassin, he is more than willing to sacrifice some of his men. For him, the end justifies the means and if, by chance, he halved the escort, that would make the task even easier for a concealed killer."

All the time he spoke, he studied her carefully, watching for any treacherous signs in her body language that might betray her.

There it was again! He was not imagining it, that evasive shift of those green eyes to the left and then they were back, fixed upon him as she stared at him with admirable defiance.

"Since when have you been in Rochefort's employment?" he fired at her.

"I am not," came her response.

It was too quick, the denial too strong and he knew at once what had happened. Despite everything that she had done, all that she was, he felt sick at the thought of what might befall her now.

"He has something on you. What is it?"

"Don't be so silly," she remonstrated with a hint of a nervous laugh. She could not tell him the extent of Rochefort's findings about her past. Athos had never known the full extent of what his brother, Thomas, had discovered about her - she had killed him before he had the chance to divulge it in its entirety – and she had done so much more in the intervening years, before and during her employment with Richelieu. Strangely, she did not want him to know what she had become, all the things she had done as the Cardinal's agent and she certainly never intended for him to know what she was when she first met the handsome young comte.

Athos frowned. "Is it about us? You and me?"

She gave a derisive laugh. "Now we get to the crux of the matter. What might Rochefort know about the runaway Comte de la Fère? Surprising as it may seem, husband, the world does not revolve around you. He does not know about our …." She searched for an appropriate word, "entanglement."

"Unless he is holding that nugget if information for another time," Athos said worriedly, recognising that she had said enough to imply Rochefort's hold over her. He advanced towards her slowly, his demeanour softening as he stood close enough to detect her light, floral perfume. "He is a dangerous man; you would do well to stay away from him. Break away whilst you can."

There was suddenly a sadness and vulnerability about her as she laid a hand on his chest and he imagined that she could feel the uncontrollable pounding of his heart beneath the leather of his doublet. How could this woman still have such an effect upon him?

"It is not as easy as all that," she whispered with apparent regret, leaning a little closer so that he could feel her weight against his body.

"Why did you do it, Ann? Is it because he has so much that he can use against you?" His green eyes were troubled, an edge of sorrow creeping into his voice. "Or is it that you hate me so much that you will ignore what Savatier has done to the regiment, to my brothers, act will do anything to hurt us?"

Her lips brushed tantalisingly against his and he held his breath.

"I did not do it out of hate," she asserted, her words seducing him with their cadence. Ann kissed him again fleetingly, drawing back before he could respond. "You still love me, Athos, and the fact that you cannot change that hurts your feelings and pride that little bit more."

Confusion clouded his features but before he could say anything, someone nearby cleared his throat to announce his presence.

"I was just wonderin' if all was well, you took off so fast." Porthos knew his excuse was lame but he had been disturbed by what he saw of the pair as he came around the corner of the corridor. Milady was nothing but trouble as far as Athos was concerned and Porthos cursed the day when she reappeared, having saved the lives of the King and d'Artagnan. He was not sure just how many times Athos could pick up the pieces of his life after yet another encounter with her, nor how often the other three _Inseparables_ could help put him back together.

The pair froze at Porthos' intrusion but Milady was the first to react with a roll of her eyes.

"I might have guessed," she said to Athos, ignoring Porthos completely. "One of your _brothers_ has followed you to make sure that your evil wife hasn't got a knife to your throat again or is in the process of grinding your face into the dust with the heel of her shoe."

Athos managed a wry smile at her words. She reached up with her left hand and drew his head down towards her, her mouth close to his ear so that when she spoke her next words, he felt her warm breath on his skin.

"North gate, dawn," she murmured and pressed something into his hand. "It is good to see you too, Porthos," she said without even turning around to address him directly. Instead, she gazed into her husband's eyes, briefly caressed the back of his neck with the fingers of the hand that still rested lightly there and rewarded him with a brief smile before she wished them both goodnight and walked off.

"What was that all about?" Porthos inquired as he moved to stand beside his friend, their attention focused upon the beautiful and elegant woman disappearing down the corridor.

Athos opened his hand to reveal what she had given him. In his palm lay two keys, both the size and shape typical of those used for shackles.

"I'd say Ann just admitted in her own inimitable way that she was the one who helped Savatier escape," he said quietly, as his hand closed upon the keys and glanced again at the spot where he had last seen her. Just as Porthos was about to complain vociferously, he added, "Don't worry, she then went on to tell me where we will find him."


	76. Chapter 76

_**Dear all, this was always meant to be the last chapter ….. until it grew and grew and grew! I have already put a chunk into chapter 77 and am about to start the denouement there.**_

 _ **Thank you for your forbearance and support. I am NEARLY there – promise! (I sound just like Athos!)**_

CHAPTER 76

"Do you believe her?" Tréville asked as he and Athos rode side by side back to the garrison.

"No!" Porthos announced from where he rode behind them with Aramis.

Athos rolled his eyes. "On this occasion, I do. She has nothing to gain by telling me otherwise."

"Nothin' except getting' your 'opes up that you'll catch up with 'im once an' for all and lettin' you look a fool when Savatier 'as gone off in the other direction," intoned Porthos.

Athos turned in his saddle and cast the big musketeer a withering glance. "You were there; you heard and saw her."

Porthos shook his head. "I was there an' I saw 'er all over you but I didn't hear anythin' she was sayin'. Seems like what she 'ad to say was for your ears only!"

Aramis let out a soft chuckle at the description which was immediately disguised by an unfortunate coughing fit when he saw Athos glare at him.

"She said the north gate at dawn and handed me the keys that she had obviously had to unlock his shackles," Athos said with forced patience.

"I would be interested to know how she got them and from whom," Tréville commented, "but we can pursue that enquiry when we have dealt with Savatier himself."

It was curious the way that he expressed himself and it had not gone unnoticed by the three men who accompanied him. The exact method of 'dealing' with Savatier was not specified but somehow capturing and returning him to the Chatelet was not uppermost in the minds of any of them.

"We will be at the northern gate an hour before dawn at the latest so that we can position ourselves," Tréville declared as they rode through the archway into the garrison yard.

From the noise that met them, many of the men were still gathered in the mess hall but there was no sense of the earlier celebration. On the contrary, there a distinct tone of anger rumbling amongst the male voices. Whilst Tréville had not made a general announcement as to Savatier's escape, he had not attempted to hide what had transpired and his sudden departure, accompanied by three of the _Inseparables_ would have been enough to arouse interest and speculation were it not for the fact that he had also swiftly dispatched d'Artagnan as head of a five-man patrol to the home of Savatier's sister, just in case the runaway had headed there first for some support.

D'Artagnan was waiting in the shadows for them as they dismounted in the flickering torchlight of the yard and handed over the reins to a couple of colleagues; the role of new stable boy or boys had yet to be filled and Tréville added the necessity of finding one or more replacements to the ever-growing list of things to be addressed at a more appropriate time.

"Well?" he demanded as the young musketeer approached them.

"The mood is getting ugly in there, especially when we returned empty-handed," d'Artagnan explained. "Gaultier was alone and roaring drunk. He made enough sense for us to ascertain that Savatier was not there and never had been after the trial and if he dared to show his face, he would be cut down."

"I'd like to be there to see that," Porthos interrupted. "Gaultier wasn't much good at defendin' 'imself when Savatier went for 'im before. 'E's only good for 'ittin' defenceless women."

"Yes, well, Madame Gaultier has apparently had enough," d'Artagnan went on. "She's moved out of the marital home and is staying with neighbours. She was very tearful when I spoke to her; not surprising really when she'd left her husband and heard the full extent of her brother's crimes all in the same day. I felt very sorry for her but she was adamant that she had not seen him and that he had better not go anywhere near her for he would not be welcome."

"And you believe her?" Tréville asked, mindful that it was the second time he had asked such a question in a very short period.

D'Artagnan nodded but was prevented from saying anything further by raised voices and overturned furniture in the mess hall.

"What the …?" Aramis began and headed toward the mess hall but Tréville was already ahead of him and threw open the door.

"Enough!" he roared, as the door crashed back on its hinges.

Most of the men within the room were immediately immobilised, such was the level of their training, but two confronted each other and further blows would have been exchanged had friends not pulled them back beyond harm's reach. The pair had the decency to look shame-faced as Tréville bore down on them, his face like thunder in his annoyance.

"I should put both of you on a charge," he spat out furiously. "We have had much against us of late and it is far from over even now, and yet you think it acceptable to fall out amongst yourselves when we should all stand together. We have work to do tonight."

Guiltily, the two men mumbled an apology and dared not look the angry man in the eye.

"I want everyone mustered in the yard in thirty minutes so you. had better find those who have gone farther afield and wake those who have retired already. Serge," Tréville searched the room rapidly until he spotted the grizzled old cook standing at the back, "no more alcohol for anyone."

It was reassuring to him that no-one moaned at the restriction, although several reached for the drinks in front of them and downed them in one go, just in case Tréville banned them from another mouthful. Turning to leave, he saw the _Inseparables_ arranged behind him.

"With me," he ordered the four as he passed between them.

II

Up in the office that he could no longer think of as his own, even though he slept in the corner and still worked there, he sank wearily into the chair behind the desk, a hand coming up to rub unconsciously at the wounded shoulder.

"Let me look at that before we head out and prepare something for the pain," Aramis offered.

Tréville shook his head. "There is no time for that; we have much to plan."

"And I will not be stopping you from talking and planning," Aramis persisted as he headed towards the door to collect what he needed. "It is likely to be along night and possibly day as well so that it is crucial that you feel comfortable."

As he left, Athos pulled up a chair uninvited at the desk and reached for paper, pen and ink bottle. "I'll scribe," he announced, his tone brooking no nonsense from the older man. "So far, we know from d'Artagnan that Savatier has not been to his sister. I take it that we are not just sitting idly here for the next few hours; you are thinking of moving out shortly if you are mustering the men."

"Correct," Tréville announced grimly. "We will search for him all night; it is only what we would do for any dangerous, escaped criminal. It keeps up the pressure and is expected of us." He held Athos' glance. "I mean no disrespect but I would prefer it if we did not just accept Milady's word. Why would she be convinced that he is going out the north gate unless a further means of transport has been arranged for him? You did not ascertain that from her?"

Athos shook his head, a momentary stab of failure angering him. He had been so surprised by her touch, her kiss and the sudden arrival of Porthos that he had not sought to pursue the matter.

"No matter," Tréville hastily added, knowing exactly what had crossed the mind of the younger man. "If she has not been complicit in arranging anything else for him, I fully believe that he would concur with heading north and then do something completely different so I want a musketeer presence at every city gate and each patrol must comprise men who can recognise him on sight."

Athos was busily making notes and suddenly stopped mid-word. "Perhaps she was so insistent upon the north gate because the plan is for him to get to the coast and board a ship in order to escape the country."

"Le Havre would be most likely," Porthos said as Aramis re-entered the room and crossed to the desk, setting down the bag in which he kept his medical provisions.

"That would give credence to her insistence on the north gate," Tréville agreed, "if passage had already been secured for him." He winced as he shrugged out of his leather doublet.

D'Artagnan frowned. "But how could that have been arranged so quickly? Who would have known when the trial would have been concluded, what the outcome would be and when sentence would be set?"

"No definite time was necessary," Athos explained. "There were several days between his arrest and the trial. That left time enough for a messenger to get to Le Havre and back having made any necessary arrangements."

"It is not encouraging to think that such planning had been behind all this," Aramis added as he began unbinding the wounded shoulder.

"It is not encouraging to think of Rochefort taking advantage of this situation at our expense but we must not underestimate the man for our troubles have played into his hands," Tréville continued, momentarily distracted as he looked down at the exposed wound to see how it was healing.

Aramis applied an ointment gently with his fingertips and set about covering it up again.

"What does 'e gain from all this?" Porthos wanted to know.

"Nothing apart from the opportunity to gloat," Athos said.

"So what do we do now?" d'Artagnan asked, looking round at the men in the room.

"We will send patrols out to the Huguenot communities to see if he has gone to any of them for temporary refuge," Tréville said, nodding in Athos' direction as he wanted it noted.

"I doubt that he would find any sanctuary with them after what he did," Aramis interjected.

"That's more than likely but he is one who is not averse to using threat and fear to get what he wants. I would not be surprised if he went to people he knew and intimidated them into giving him some shelter until he was intending to leave the city. As well as patrols there, I want a search along all likely routes between where he was helped to escape from the guards to the north gate. We need to question those on the gate in the hours before they were locked, give them Savatier's description, just in case he was able to slip through earlier this evening. Also, if we don't pick him up at dawn at the gate, we will need to be ready to ride out and continue the search along the road from Paris, assuming that he will be heading to the coast," Tréville concluded.

Athos took a deep breath. "That's a lot to prepare."

"Exactly, so I shall brief the men in fifteen minutes, give them time to get ready to move out whilst you finish dividing our available men into groups. I want you four with me at the north gate, plus ten men. We are leaving nothing to chance; men will be positioned along the outside of the city wall in case Savatier tried to get over it somehow, should he be alerted to our presence."

Tréville stood and spoke to Aramis as he finished tying the bandage. "See Serge. We will want supplies in a bag for those of us at the north gate. I do not intend wasting any time coming back here if we find that we do have to pursue him en route to the coast."

"Are you going to send a message to the palace?" Athos asked, wondering what might happen if Tréville suddenly left Paris. The man might not be the commanding officer of the King's regiment at present but the monarch still seemed to act at times as though he were and there could be no accounting for his displeasure should he send for Tréville, only to find that the man was not around.

In a moment of wicked humour, Tréville gave a wry smile at Athos. "I was thinking you could write and sign a message to Louis on my behalf. We can take it with us and I will send one of the men back with it should it prove necessary."

III

It was a long night and musketeer manpower was spread very thinly throughout the city. Men brought updates to Tréville as he worked his way northwards through the city and established himself at the gate that gave access to main routes heading north and westwards towards the coast and ports.

Reports from musketeers supported the fact that Savatier had not attempted to get shelter within the Huguenot community. Searches of empty buildings and workshops along the road to the city's northern exit had not produced any sign of the fugitive but that was not to ignore the possibility that he was hiding in an outbuilding in any of the narrow side streets further back from the main thoroughfare. Tréville did not have the men to carry that out and, on this occasion, he refused to elicit help from Rochefort's Red Guard to swell his resources; neither they nor their commander were to be trusted with what was most definitely Musketeer business.

He had demanded that those on duty at the north gate during the final hours of daylight were brought to him to answer questions. On being confronted by a man who exuded authority, they were obviously nervous but very co-operative, explaining that exit from the city during the last of the evening light had not been particularly busy as the majority of travellers departed in the late afternoon. It meant that those in transit had been easily observable. None had drawn attention to themselves and no person had answered to Savatier's description, but there had been carts on the road as well as the pedestrians and the men were apologetic when they admitted that they had not had any reason to search the horse-drawn vehicles. No alarm had, as yet, been raised.

There was the risk, therefore, that Savatier was already beyond the city's walls but Tréville refused to dwell on that possibility.

An hour before dawn, eight men were stationed at separate points along the outer wall, four on each side of the gate whilst a further two were inside and away from the gate's left. Tréville and Athos stood ready at the gate itself with Aramis across from them. Porthos and d'Artagnan had stationed themselves along the wall but would still be within sight once dawn broke and were within earshot.

The area before the gate was illuminated by a number of flaming torches in sconces. Athos stepped closer to Tréville, watching the man closer in the flickering torchlight to gauge his reaction. He eventually broke the silence, his voice low so that only the other soldier would hear him.

"Are we taking him alive?" The question sounded so innocuous, his tone suggesting that he was asking if the weather were likely to change rather than initiating a discussion on the deliberate taking of a man's life.

There was a long pause before Tréville replied. "That would depend?"

"Upon what?"

The older man dropped his voice so that his words were just above a whisper. "How far he is prepared to resist arrest."

Another pause followed as Athos turned his attention to the approach road to the gate. "Given what he has been prepared to do to remain at large, I anticipate that he will put up quite a fight."

"I hope that he does," Tréville growled. He folded his arms across his chest and stared down the road. Both men blatantly avoided looking at each other so that, were anyone to study them, they would appear to be having a casual conversation. "When that time comes, he is my responsibility. I will deal with him."

His unspoken message was quite clear; when it came to a fight, he would be the one to engage with Savatier.

Now Athos, carefully maintaining an expressionless mask, turned to him. "Your shoulder has not healed yet; it may prove detrimental to your movements."

"Perhaps," Tréville gave a slight, measured shrug; anything more pronounced would have hurt. "With what he has done to this regiment over these years, how he has targeted and hurt my men …" His voice faltered as he realised the error of what he had said. They were not his men, not any more.

Athos knew exactly what was going through his head when he hesitated. "They will always be your men," he stated softly.

Tréville waved a hand dismissively. "He hurt the men, insulted me, you, and has tried to destroy both the regiment and its reputation. No more! _I_ will face him."

Athos knew better than to contradict him or insist otherwise but he would not be far away and Tréville was aware of that.

The older man cleared his throat. "If I should fall, I want _you_ to finish things. Do you understand?"

Athos nodded his agreement. "I promise."


	77. Chapter 77

_**Dear all, saying a huge 'thank you' to all of you for reading, reviewing, following, making the story a 'favourite' and for sending private messages does not seem to be enough. I am delighted that so many have enjoyed this story and have patiently stuck with it when I have had big gaps between posting; unfortunately, 'real life' does make its demands. However, you have given me so much encouragement, support and many laughs in return.**_

 _ **This has been a mammoth undertaking, originating from a throw-away line made by Porthos (it's all his fault) in chapter 25 of 'Renegade', and from that 'Retribution' was born. It was never meant to be as long as 'Renegade' - I wonder what happened! I have learned much along the way, which was my intention and hope. To begin with, it probably could have been two stories with the middle section on Ré a long story on its own, and subsequent events in Paris 4 years later being the sequel or part II, but it was an experiment and I have evaluated that. I have loved doing the research; as some of you know it is the basis for an original work that I am writing but that has taken a backseat for this and the first draft of a novel on 'Macbeth'. (Now I need to start the editing on that!)**_

 _ **I could not believe it when I put the final full stop and typed 'The End!' I apologise for any careless errors that might have crept through. I have done a quick check but this chapter has taken forever and I am eager to post it for you. It has been a journey of nearly 18 months from start to finish and I can only thank you wholeheartedly for staying with me. Depending upon when I set other stories (you haven't got rid of me yet!), who knows if we will ever see or hear of Claude, Delacroix or Savatier again, although they definitely do not appear in the next one!**_

 _ **In the meantime, here is the final chapter of 'Retribution'. It is a very long chapter this time as I refused to break it down and lessen the tension so I hope you will accept that poor excuse. I do hope that you enjoy it and that you feel it has reached a suitable conclusion. Once more, a huge and very humble 'thank you' to you all.**_

CHAPTER 77

I

With the daylight came those in their numbers who wished to use the road out of the city and they queued patiently as they waited for the gates to be unlocked and opened. Some were on foot and carrying very little, suggesting that their visit to the city had unintentionally been extended; they had either imbibed too much at one of the many taverns or lost track of time so that they had not made good their exit from Paris before the gates closed.

A few pushed all their belongings on handcarts, obviously intent upon leaving the capital for a new life elsewhere. Poverty in the city was rife but it was mirrored in many towns and villages across the country and there were those who had initially poured into Paris, expecting relief from their situation and hoping to find employment. When that dream was not realised, some decided to return to their original homes and their drawn faces showed their sense of failure.

The more fortunate were on horseback, travelling singly or in pairs as they worked to keep their restless mounts calm. Animals and riders were keen to be on the open road; they were either returning to loved ones, business concluded, or they were about to embark upon a project. There would even be those who were heading to the coast for foreign shores.

The remainder of those wanting to make an early start were driving carts, empty after bringing farm produce for sale at the city's markets or loaded now for deliveries of goods to outlying towns or transportation from the ports.

Tréville pulled on his gloves impatiently and swung up into the saddle.

"Ride the line with me," he ordered Athos and watched as the young man untethered his horse and quickly mounted.

They slowly rode down the queue, one on each side. Their movements were slow and deliberate, their faces hard and intimidating as their eyes ranged over the people, the fleur de lis on their shoulders an undeniable symbol of the authority they wielded. Wary eyes watched them as it was not a usual sight to see the King's Musketeers at the city's gates unless there was something serious afoot and so the civilians were alert to any developments.

As they reached the first of the carts, Tréville drew his sword and used its tip to move the canvas covering that lay in its bed. It was as he expected – empty. They moved on, scrutinising those who waited; some met their inspection with open defiance whilst others would not deign to look up at them. The musketeers halted their horses occasionally taking advantage of any opportunity that afforded them a better view of someone who could have been Savatier in some sort of disguise.

They progressed down the line and paused again at another wagon.

"What are you looking for?" asked the carter. He was a large, jovial man who was not at all daunted by the examination; rather, he was somewhat curious at the musketeer interest.

"Not what, who," Tréville explained as Athos searched the back of the cart. It did not take long before he shook his head.

"Who might that be then?" the man continued.

"No-one you need to be bothering yourself about," Tréville answered cryptically. "He's not in your cart anyway." He glanced across at Athos who, with a slight dip of his head, indicated towards the next carter waiting in line.

Making a pretence of rearranging his reins, Tréville glanced at the man in question. In his forties with grey, thinning hair and small in build, he seemed nervous and fidgeted continually. As the two musketeers drew level with him, he chewed on his bottom lip and avoided looking at them; beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead.

Glancing past him, Tréville could see that the cart was full of casks. From the marks painted on them, they contained wine from the Loire Valley and were no doubt bound for a northern port. Dutch interest in French vineyards and wine had flourished and, given their sizeable merchant fleet and trading access across Northern Europe, they were than ready to move and sell the merchandise. Indeed, even when relations between the French and English were at a low ebb, the Dutch intervened and delivered wines from Bordeaux and La Rochelle to England.

Athos had edged his horse forward a little and was staring fixedly at one of the casks. The lids were securely fastened on all save that one. Athos rode back to the carter.

"Where are you bound with these casks?" he asked casually.

"Le Havre," the man said, his voice cracking with tension, his eyes filled with terror and the sweat trickling down from his left temple.

"Where does the wine come from?" Athos commented, trying to sound conversational and put the man at his ease even as he studied the cart's contents in closer detail.

"From the Loire Valley," the man whispered.

Athos continued to read the marks on the sides of the casks. "Melon de Bourgogne. A white wine; pity, I prefer a red myself although I have been known to partake of the white." He smiled.

"I can't give you any," the man said, his panic increasing by the minute at the delay. He suspected that the musketeer might use his authority as leverage for a free sample or even to appropriate a full cask for the garrison. "It's more than my life's worth."

Athos gave a friendly shrug. "No matter, it's rather early in the morning for me." He ignored the strained expression of disbelief on Tréville's face at the announcement. "Besides," he went on blithely, "it's also more than my life's worth to drink on duty, especially with my Captain on the other side of your cart."

The man looked desperately from one to the other musketeer and back again whilst Tréville thought better of correcting the younger musketeer about the term of address he had used.

"Well, you will soon be on your way, Sir, and I wish you a speedy and safe journey," Athos smiled reassuringly at the carter.

He and Tréville continued down the line and drew their mounts close together at the end.

"That carter was exceedingly nervous," Athos said.

"Indeed he was, even before we got to him. Did you notice that cask with the loose lid?"

"There was only the one like that. All the others were shut tight."

"So," Tréville began, "it could have been unfastened by accident."

"It's possible but it would be a very careless carter not to have noticed. He will already have been on the road for several days. If the cask has been open since the point of departure, the wine will have spoilt by now and if he has been helping himself or some has been stolen, he would most probably have added water and made sure that it had been resealed properly to conceal such losses. No, my guess is that it was left off to allow air in and that, had we inspected it more closely, we would have found it devoid of wine entirely." Athos did not need to say anything more.

"Could he really fit himself into one on those casks?" Tréville speculated.

Athos thought carefully for a moment. "He is not a big man, certainly not as tall as either of us. It would be a tight fit in a barrique but not impossible, especially for one as determined to escape as he is." Even as he spoke, he was looking down the line as the cart bearing the casks inched slowly forward, and narrowed his eyes, trying to visualise how Savatier was curled up within the oaken shape. "I wonder how long he has been in there already. This line is not progressing very quickly. He may find it very difficult to move when he attempts to get out."

"That would certainly work to our advantage," Tréville acknowledged.

"How do you want to do this?" Athos asked, understanding how important this was to the man beside him; nothing must be allowed to go wrong. "Will you take him when the cart reaches the gate?"

Tréville shook his head. "We have waited this long; I can be patient for a little while longer. We do not know what weaponry he has with him in that cask, if any. Your wife may have given him some arms, or he has had enough hours to steal some. There have been deaths a-plenty at his hands. He is more than capable of killing again should the need arise so I cannot endanger the civilians in this line. Once they move through the gate, they will travel at different speeds. We will follow at a distance, keeping the cart within sight. Then, when we are about a mile or so from the gate, we will move in, for the land is open country at that point. He will have nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. Agreed?" Absent-mindedly, he began gently rubbing and flexing his wounded shoulder.

Athos saw the move and studied the grim determination on the face of the man he revered and still regarded as his commanding officer. He tried to dispel the uncomfortable feeling he had about the final confrontation, Tréville's injury and the oath he had sworn – that if Tréville were to fall fighting Savatier, Athos had to conclude the conflict.

He was not to intervene any earlier if he saw the older man falter or struggle; it was going to be very hard to stand by and watch if that happened but Tréville was a man of intense pride, honour and duty. He saw it as his responsibility and his alone to right the wrongs Savatier had meted out upon the regiment. He had accepted the man into their ranks and promoted him to Lieutenant, an endorsement he would deplore for the rest of his life, however long that might be. Savatier's protracted hatred was primarily directed towards him, Tréville, and so it was incumbent upon him to deal with the situation, whether he was fully fit or not. It did not matter what Athos thought and felt, he had to abide by the wishes of the older man, even if that meant watching him die in combat, an outcome for which he knew he would never be ready.

Pushing his reticence aside, he nodded. "Agreed."

II

As Tréville quickly outlined the plan to Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan with the expectation that they would accompany him and Athos in pursuit of the cart, Athos went to the rest of the men inside and outside the walls, instructing them to change position when the five rode out through the gate. They were to move up and continue observing the ever-growing line of those leaving Paris, just in case both he and Tréville had made a grievous error and Savatier was not to be found hiding in an empty wine cask.

As the carter reached the gate, he was in a near state of collapse at the prospect of being stopped. For his reaction to be so extreme, he must have known of the presence of his unexpected passenger and to be so guileless suggested that he was under considerable duress somehow. The relief when Athos waved him on was almost tangible. At Tréville's nod, he and the _Inseparables_ went to their horses and mounted whilst the other musketeers moved silently to their new stations, holding back the travellers only as long as it took the five riders to disappear through the gateway.

The cart, with its heavy load, trundled along so slowly that the following horsemen had to rein in periodically, their mounts frustrated by the pace. It was at one such stop that they reviewed the situation.

"Do you think Savatier knows we are following?" Aramis asked.

"Doubt it or if 'e does, he's bidin' 'is time about makin' a move. We've had the cart in sight all the while an' there's been no bid for freedom," Porthos said.

"Nor has the cart slowed any further for him to jump clear," d'Artagnan added.

Porthos gave an amused snort. "If that cart moved any slower, it'd stop completely."

"We'll move up now," Tréville ordered. "Aramis and Porthos, you ride wide to the left, come round and ahead of the cart. Porthos, come from the left. You, Aramis, come from the front, meet the cart head on and stop it. D'Artagnan, you will move as Porthos does but to the right. Athos and I will come upon the cart from the rear."

There was no need for words, a dip of the head from all three was enough to show that they heard and heeded the order. A flick of the reins and a touch of a booted heel to the animals' flanks and the horses moved in a wide arc on both sides of the cart. Some other travellers on the route noted the move and anticipated trouble of some sort so that they either stopped completely or moved off the road to the sides so that they were not accidentally embroiled in whatever was about to happen. A few adventurous or reckless types sensed that there was about to be some sort of action and, eyes fixed on the outlying musketeers, they speeded up, not wanting to miss anything as they tried to determine the soldiers' target.

That was when Savatier knew he had to run.

When the cart had been stationary within the city gates, he had heard and recognised Athos' voice as he conversed with the nervous carter and, at the musketeer's mention of the 'Captain' being on the opposite side of the cart, he rightly assumed that Tréville was also there and that between them, they had ascertained his place of concealment. Neither of them was stupid and he had held his breath, waiting for the moment when the loose lid would be torn away and he would be revealed.

It had not happened and he had rapidly rethought the situation; it was hard to forget his days as a soldier and how some strategies had to be spontaneous. They were going to stop the cart outside the city then, in the open. Listening to the sound of the wheels on the ground, he heard the distinct change as the cart went through the gate and under the massive archway set into the curtain wall of the city. Then he heard it change again as they were out on the open and he dared to raise the lid of the cask. He could see enough of the road behind to catch glimpses of the pursuing musketeers who were obviously in no hurry and he saw the moment when three of them peeled away, two in one direction and a lone rider in the other. He likewise saw the pair who rode side by side along the road behind him and even though features were indistinct given the distance, a sixth sense warned him of their identity; Tréville and Athos – it could hardly be anyone else.

Savatier was not a stupid man either, despite how others might have interpreted his actions over the years, and with the assessing of his current situation, he knew that the chances of a successful escape were virtually non-existent. That did not mean that he would give up easily without some sort of a fight. If he could take down Tréville with him, his prayers – were he still to offer them heavenward – would be answered and if he could also destroy the soldier's shadow, Athos, that would be a bonus. He was not interested in the remainder of the _Inseparables,_ annoying though they were;they would suffer enough with the demise of their 'brother'. Serve them right; they avowed that they were toughened soldiers, the King's élite, and as such should not give way to such sentimental nonsense as deep brotherhood and friendship. They were men of action, battle, comrades in arms; it should suffice that they 'had each other's backs' on the field of conflict without the necessity for more. It had never been like this when he first signed his name on a document stating his allegiance to a regiment.

He could never bring himself to admit that he had often felt a pang of jealousy at the deep bond the three young men had forged between them for he had never experienced anything even remotely similar.

Savatier eased his position fractionally in the cask and allowed himself the luxury of a low groan. He was cramped, stiff and humiliated by the drastic measures he had taken to affect an escape from Paris and he knew that he would not be able to run far, that was if he could even rapidly restore feeling to his lower limbs to enable some movement.

His foot pressed against the flintlock pistol he had appropriated from a stranger he had rendered senseless in a back street. Just another casualty to add to his ever-increasing list, although he doubted that this one had proved fatal. He had stripped the unconscious man of any money along with the ancient pistol and a little ammunition and powder. He had a paltry length of match cord but nothing with which he could spark a light so the firearm was useless to him in his current predicament.

Instead he fondled the dagger in his belt, courtesy of the dark-haired beauty who had come to his rescue. She had unlocked the chains that fettered him with a key and then handed him the dagger with a wry smile.

"You might need this," she had said as she proffered the weapon, her voice teasing, sultry. She had refused to answer any of his questions with a flash of her fascinating green eyes so he had no idea to whom he owed his thanks and why. Was she his guardian angel or the agent of another? All she would say was that he had to be at the north gate at dawn and then she was gone with a rustle of magenta silks, the only evidence of her brief presence being the dead guards that lay at his feet and the hint of a floral perfume.

Not wanting to be found in the vicinity of Red Guard corpses, he had run northwards through the darkened streets, attacked a man to steal another weapon and money, and then waited in the lee of a dark building until he saw the cart carrying the wine casks approaching. It had been easy to intimidate the carter – he had had years of practice, after all – and the man had almost wept in fear as he was forced to empty a wine cask into the gutter, the point of a dagger between his shoulder blades. As Savatier lowered himself into the cask, he had waved the pistol in the carter's direction, declaring that he intended to spy on him from beneath the unfastened lid and threatening all manner of dire outcomes if the carter attempted to betray the hidden man. His innocent victim was too overwhelmed to realise that the weapon could not be fired and complied readily to all that was demanded of him.

Now Savatier knew that his situation was hopeless. He was on foot and his pursuers were on horseback. Fleetingly the idea of taking one of the horses pulling the cart crossed his mind. There would be no time to unharness the creature and the leather was probably too thick to sever swiftly with a dagger. Besides, the heavily built animal was selected for stamina and not for speed; there was no way that it could outrun the fleeter horses, often stallions, favoured by the regiment.

Lifting the lid cautiously, he watched the riders approaching from the sides. His best chance was to leave the cart in the direction of the solo rider. He might be able to take on one man, drag him from his horse and seize the animal for his own means or at least give him time to get to the trees and disappear between the trunks. The dark line of the copse suggested some close planting that would hopefully make a mounted pursuit more difficult.

It was now or never!

He threw back the lid, muscled arms exerting the push to get himself up and out of the cask. Abandoning the pistol and clutching the dagger tightly in his right hand, he scrambled across the single layer of casks and threw himself over the side of the slowly moving cart.

He landed awkwardly and stumbled the first few paces, his feet numb whilst pins and needles ran the length of his lower limbs. Cursing briefly, he forced himself to ignore the discomfort and pounded across the dry grass, anything to reinvigorate his circulation as each step took him a little closer to the tree line. He was not looking but heard the yell as the rider spurred his horse into a full gallop, heard as well the thunder of hooves growing ever louder as the animal and musketeer bore down on him.

III

"There he is!" Athos shouted, urging his horse forward.

Tréville saw Savatier at the same moment and a light touch to his eager animal's flank was all that was needed to encourage a burst of speed.

The five musketeers converged upon their man as innocent civilians scattered screaming before them, unaware that they were skilled horsemen who were not about to run them down. Porthos had a near miss, however, when a hysterical woman ran away from him towards Aramis. Seeing him, she turned to run back in front of the first horse but Porthos, in an instant of excellent anticipation, expected just such a reaction from her and swerved around her as she collapsed to the ground in a dead faint. Knowing that he had not caught her even a glancing blow, he rode on for there was a far more pressing need for his attention and he did not doubt that some people would congregate to assist her.

Savatier ground to a halt, breathing hard and accepting that his run was futile, even as the mounted men menacingly encircled him at a distance of several feet, four of them moving this way and that to cut off any further means of escape. Only Tréville sat still in his saddle, back straight and eyeing with contempt the man whom he had once been proud to address as Lieutenant.

"And so we meet again, Tréville," he said with mocking cheerfulness, "and so soon."

"It is not a pleasure; of that I can assure you," Tréville ground out.

"So how are we going to do this then?" Savatier taunted. "Do you wish me to make it easy for you and try to run between two of your most trusted henchmen here so that you can bring me down with a pistol shot to the back? Oh forgive me, dear Athos," and he bowed low and derisively in the direction of the young musketeer as if noticing him for the first time. "Perhaps the delight of such a move will be all yours."

"Watch your mouth," Porthos warned.

Insolently, Savatier looked around him, a hand to his ear as if he could not see who had spoken. "Did I hear something then? Was it the bark of an obedient dog?"

"Enough of your impudence, Sir!" Tréville roared. "Just try at the end of your miserable existence to remember who you once were, what you once represented."

Sabatier threw up his hands. "The end of my miserable existence; yes, that's it exactly. I thank you for reminding me." His demeanour abruptly changed from brazen to belligerent. "I thought that I was representing a France that would be great, that would command the respect and admiration of its neighbours; a France that would rule the seas, defying and defeating anyone who thought they could diminish her power, suppress her independence, crush her cultural creativity and challenge her allegiance to the Holy church of Rome."

His bitter eyes swept across the men around him.

"But I was wrong," he continued, "sadly wrong. Instead we are still ruled by a petulant, arrogant boy-king incapable of making a decent decision about his country's future from one day to the next."

D'Artgnan made to object at the slight to his monarch. Louis was far from perfect but he was not the totally incompetent individual that Savatier was presenting. Tréville sense that the young man was about to interrupt the felon and silenced him with a raised hand.

"It was Cardinal Richelieu who had the right ideas, who really ruled this country and could have achieved much more had he been given leave to do so," Savatier announced defiantly. "He would have dealt once and for all with the Protestants, none of the treaties and allowing them land at La Rochelle. We would not then have had to tread carefully with the English and that imbecile, Buckingham, but Louis was afraid of responding with full force, for he did not want to upset the English King. An all-out war against the English would have taught them a salutary lesson that France was not to be underestimated. Louis needs to forget his ties to the English court through his sister's marriage. He should view her as lost, a political sacrifice; the English are naught but traitorous pirates, never to be believed." He paused for breath.

"So you were in Richelieu's employment," Tréville interposed softly, confirming what he had suspected for a long time.

Savatier looked directly at him, a maniacal grin distorting his features. "Of course I was, and proud to be so. I had the perfect opportunity to lay down my life in service to this country, to bring things to a close with the death of Buckingham were it not for this idiot who fouled up the attempt," and he gesticulated with his head in Athos' direction.

"You never had much time for Athos, did you?" Tréville asked somewhat conversationally.

"Indeed not but I was wrong there as well, wasn't I?" and he bowed again. " _Monsieur le Comte."_

Surprised glances were exchanged between Athos' three friends, for they had remained oblivious to his revelation in the Chatelet to Savatier.

"Yet you have spent time with the Huguenots in the intervening years," Athos observed, pointedly ignoring the other man's less than veiled sarcasm.

Savatier responded with an exaggerated sigh, as if the reason were painfully obvious to all who had any intelligence. Clearly, he considered that Athos was sadly lacking in that area.

"I insinuated myself amongst their number, convinced them that I had been sorely used by France, her King and her musketeers. It wasn't difficult," he spat out. "After all, it _was_ the truth. For them, I became the master of the apology, assuming guilt for what I had done against those of their faith. I claimed that I had been manipulated and misguided by the lies of Rome and the Crown. Gullible fools, all of them. When they knew I was a musketeer and learned of the skills I had, they saw a use for me and I was not about to disillusion them, for I would make them do my bidding instead. They would be blamed, reviled for the acts against the musketeers and the King, and I would be solving many problems in one."

"And those problems are?" Tréville prompted, keeping his tone measured and calm. He had not thought that he would have the chance to hear any explanation or what amounted to a confession from Savatier. He did not, for an instant, think that the man was telling him any of this out of a sense of remorse but saw it for what it was; a last, vainglorious boast before he met his end.

Savatier blatantly ticked the points off on his fingers. "The Huguenots and their twisted observances that disgrace Our Lord; the continued political shortcomings in this sorry country, especially since the demise of the saint that was the Cardinal –"

He was interrupted as Porthos coughed to conceal the disbelieving laugh that was about to break from him. Aramis glowered at him and he waved a hand in mute apology.

"And then there is the useless individual upon the throne who takes advantage of all the luxuries, deference and ceremonies due his position without taking the responsibility, surrounding himself instead with sycophants. That tidily brings me to you, Tréville, and those you would call the King's élite."

Athos bridled visibly in anticipation of what was about to be said.

"But we have already discussed this in the Chatelet, haven't we? You, Athos and me? I fear time is too short for us to go over old ground again for nothing has changed. It speaks volumes that out of all the regiment – there must be some left that I haven't maimed or killed – of all the regiment, you are here, old man, with these three." He paused to look around at the young men he knew from the past. Then his eyes settled on d'Artagnan. "Plus one. My, my, you must be special. Don't tell me you managed to broach the wall erected around the three of them and wormed your way into their trust and brotherly affection!" His voice was scathing even as d'Artagnan's face burned with anger. "Or perhaps you were a poor unfortunate fool that Tréville has dragged along to make up numbers."

He was met by stony silence, a resolve that they were not going to rise to his taunts.

He sighed again but it was different from before. Resigned, perhaps; he must have known that his time was running out.

"So," he said with bravado, "if you are not going to shoot me in the back, perhaps you will fire at the back of a leg and fell me that way or, as we continue this marvellous conversation, throw a rope around me and bind me fast." His features hardened. "You would do best to kill me now for I have no intention of being taken back to the Chatelet to be executed in the morning."

He suddenly brightened as if a thought had struck him and he drew himself up to his full height.

"Perhaps it ought to be you and me, Tréville, for old time's sake. We were both men of honour, duty, commitment and loyalty in our day. Accept my challenge and we can fight like gentlemen. Name your weapon."

"You aren't a gen'leman an' you 'aven't got a grain of honour left in your body after all you've done," Porthos said, angered by the man's temerity to even suggest such a thing.

"Oh, my dear Porthos, I'm afraid that we would have to agree to differ; we clearly do not have the same perspective on things. Besides, from where your dear ex-captain is standing, I would have thought that he would welcome the opportunity to take me apart piece by piece and that he would be prepared for me to do the same to him. After all, it would spare him any more disgrace than he has acquired already through his own incompetence. Good grief, Tréville, I thought you were bad enough four years ago but you seem to have scaled new heights of ineptitude of late. Just think, fight me and you would be able to claim that you have avenged the deaths of your men, the ruination of the regiment and all the other things for which you hold me personally responsible. Do not deny that it is a tempting prospect."

"Don't listen to him, Captain," Aramis intervened.

"How touching!" Savatier said provocatively. "They still think of you as their captain."

All the while, Tréville sat in his saddle, watching and listening to the man's goading.

"Let's sort this now," Porthos insisted but even as he made to move his mount forward, Tréville dropped his reins and slid from the saddle, stepping forward into the circle.

"No, no, no, no, no!" d'Artagnan moaned, each word increasing in intensity and volume.

"Hold!" Athos ordered, dismounting and rounding on his three brothers who were in the process of joining him, fully expecting to join him in defending Tréville, the man they continued to regard as their leader. They looked at Athos aghast as he stood there, hand on the intricate basket hilt of his sword. "Stay where you are, all of you."

"But …" Aramis began.

"You are not to move; that is an order," Athos shouted.

"Says who?" Porthos demanded as he swung a leg over his horse's head.

"Says the Captain," Athos shouted, his face expressionless, "and me."

D'Artagnan studied him in alarm. How could Athos let Tréville face Savatier like this? Surely he was not going to let this challenge go ahead! To stand by and watch the traitor kill Tréville when they outnumbered the man five to one and could easily affect a re-arrest?

Savatier immediately understood what was transpiring and threw back his head as he laughed aloud. "It seems that Athos and Tréville have made a plan that doesn't include you, gentlemen."

Athos knew his brothers' eyes were on him for confirmation but he studiously ignored them, not daring to think of what would happen during the subsequent confrontation with them should anything befall the older musketeer. He had to abide by his promise to Tréville, whether he like it or not. He had given his word, sworn to complete the task and he was ready for that, should the need arise.

Tréville drew his sword. "The time for talking has stopped. Let's get on with this; I accept your challenge."

He nodded at Athos who drew his sword and laid it across his raised arm, offering the hilt to Savatier. It had not escaped him that his own weapon could be the one to end the life of the man he revered more than his late father. He fleetingly wondered if he would ever be able to bring himself to use it again if that were to happen. Savatier took the sword from him with a grin and sliced the air with it to test its balance.

He tutted appreciatively and dipped his head in a genuine acknowledgement. "A fine blade but then I would have expected nothing less for a member of the nobility who has carved out a name for himself as the finest swordsman in the regiment and possible the country. I shall do my best not to damage it."

Athos felt sick and reached for the main gauche at his back, reassuring himself of its presence for he knew he would use it in a second if the need arose. He saw Savatier take up his position, rapier poised as he shifted his weight. A glance at Tréville caught the man flexing his wounded shoulder, a pained grimace darkening his features even as the sweat beaded his brow.

Suddenly Savatier launched his attack but his former captain met each thrust and blow with a strong parry, even as he was driven back across the dry ground.

Oblivious to the presence of his brothers and their worried gasps, Athos focused on the fight. It was desperate from both men, utterly brutal and lacking in finesse. This was to the death and the two combatants wanted it over as quickly as possible. When Tréville slid and lost his footing on the parched, dusty ground, sinking to one knee, Savatier saw an advantage and went in for the final strike but the musketeer blocked the weapon and the two held their position, strength evenly matched as Savatier tried to force him down onto his back and he was trying to force the younger man off him.

Athos did not realise that he was holding his breath, willing Tréville to have the superior power and he bit back a relieved cry as Tréville drew on his quickly depleting reserves and pushed his assailant away. Scrambling to his feet, he followed, pounding at Savatier, elbowing him in the side of the head between swinging his sword at the other man. Willing on his mentor, Athos saw that he was tiring; it was too soon after the shoulder wound to be engaging in anything this physical but he noted that Savatier was not faring too well either. Although the skills were still apparent, the years away from the musketeers had worn down Savatier's abilities and had a detrimental effect upon his level of fitness. Tréville might be the older of the two but his attention to his own training regime meant that his physique and stamina were that of a younger man.

It was unfortunate, therefore, that Savatier was the first to break through his opponent's defences, his rapier slashing through the leather doublet on the sleeve and into the flesh of the already injured arm. Tréville let out a howl of pain and surprise, taking several steps backwards, his chest heaving with exertion as he readied himself for another assault. He threw himself forward, his face contorted in fury, a primitive roar breaking from his throat as he redoubled his efforts.

Athos was mesmerised by the blood running down Tréville's arm, staining the leather and making the left hand slick and was willing him on so hard to deliver the killing blow that he almost missed it when it came. Mature Tréville might be but he knew well his craft. The first to admit that he never had any of the deadly beauty and sheer athleticism of Athos, Tréville was no novice with a sword in his hand and now, with another injury and fired up by the thoughts of how Savatier had nearly destroyed his regiment and the personal insults to himself, he fought like a man possessed and his opponent, with everything to lose, began to realise it.

Weakening visibly under the weight of the onslaught, Savatier was losing ground and opportunity. A moment's lack of concentration was all it took and Tréville found the much needed flaw in the other man's defence, the point of his rapier finding its home in the place where the cold man's heart was purportedly housed.

Savatier's eyes widened in surprise, his legs buckled and he crumpled to his knees. He looked up at the man who had defeated him and gave a strange, small smile. It was partly sad, perhaps because of a last minute sense of remorse, but also there was a suggestion of relief; that he had been allowed to put up a fight and defend himself to the end, rather than face an ignominious death on the scaffold.

He gave a little cough but the smile on his face lasted a little longer than the light in his eyes. When that departed, he pitched forward onto his face and lay still.

Gasping in air to fill his tortured lungs, Tréville thrust the point of his rapier into the ground and bent at the waist, leaning on the hilt to steady himself but it was to no avail. A debilitating weariness washed over him as the blood loss and pain simultaneously overwhelmed him and he, too, sank to the dirt.

Athos covered the distance between them in long, easy strides even as his brothers reached Savatier, crouched down and rolled him onto his back. Aramis sought for signs of life but, when he found none, he shook his head and sat back on his heels, looking over to where Athos had dropped beside the kneeling Tréville and wrapped an arm round him to stabilise him. The older man slid sideways and leaned heavily against him so Athos eased him into a more comfortable position and held him close, the injured arm away from him so that Aramis could cut away the ruined sleeve and assess the damage to the arm beneath.

Head against Athos' shoulder and eyes battling with encroaching unconsciousness, Tréville had only one question to ask. His voice was little more than a breathy whisper.

"Is it over?"

Athos glanced to where Porthos and d'Artagnan had already procured the services of a civilian with an empty cart. They loaded the corpse into the bed of the cart and Porthos covered it with a heavy canvas even as the younger musketeer pressed some coins into the reluctant carter's hand.

"Yes," Athos replied, smiling down at the man he held. "It is finally and most definitely over now. You have avenged our fallen brothers and punishment has been meted out. The end was more honourable than he deserved."

"But befitting one who had been a good soldier and musketeer in earlier years," Tréville murmured, his eyes closing.

Athos looked questioningly across at Aramis who had finished examining the new and old wounds.

"He will be fine," Aramis reassured him. "It will require stitching and his shoulder wound has reopened which is hardly surprising. Blood loss, shock, pain and exhaustion have taken their toll but, with proper care and the lack of stress that Savatier's death should now bring, I doubt that he will be kept down for long."

Porthos joined the group and stood looking down on them. "d'Artagnan's gone to get another cart. Didn't seem right makin' the Captain 'ere travel with a dead man."

"A considerate thought," Aramis smiled and stood up to join him as they watched d'Artagnan pointing out to another carter exactly where to drive his horses.

Still holding Tréville in one arm, Athos held the hand that was closest to him and spoke softly to the insensible man so that his brothers could not hear him.

"You are a good, brave and honourable man and I will kill any who dares to say otherwise. Your inspiration will guide us and _you_ will be instrumental in rebuilding us so that the musketeer regiment will be bigger and better than ever before; it will be great again. The men will work to that end and you will lead them again; that day will come and we will be ready. Where you lead, I will always follow for I cannot conceive any alternative." His voice caught as he made his vow.

The eyes of the man he held protectively flickered open. "Be careful what you promise; I may keep you to that."

Athos, startled that he had been overheard as he had believed Tréville to be unconscious, felt the heat rise in his cheeks and knew his colour had deepened.

"I thought …" he began.

Tréville squeezed the hand that held his and smiled weakly. "Take me home … and that's an order."

THE END


End file.
